Defeatist Butterfly
I feel compelled to write if only to acknowledge change in my life. I don’t know what this means. I no longer harbour enough angst or troubles to blog about this passionately. I get a bad feeling that we are on the verge of another argument.Last night’s arguments had all been made before. I hate mercury retrogrades.
All I wanted to do this morning was run. To leave, to escape, to get out.
It’s obvious that I’ve hurt her by letting her know that I don’t want her to care about me. My boyfriend will never understand my culture, and no matter how hard I try, I don’t believe I will be able to explain it to him properly. On top of which, well, I don’t know.
I’m sitting here at work, my eyes gritty and tired from crying all night and morning. I think I only had about five hours of sleep, if even that. I stared out the window this morning and watched the stations pass by. Granville, Lidcombe, Strathfield, Ashfield, Redfern, barely registering them.
And suddenly I’m at work. I’ve spent the morning clearing my desk of all the papers that have occupied it for the last few weeks. Scrubbed it down with alcohol because the desk cleaner’s disappeared.
I’m just sitting here at work waiting for the day to end.
Y’know, I’ve never been in an argument where I’ve felt completely useless. No matter what I said it was thrown back at me in all the wrong contexts. Every word I ever uttered in sarcasm, anger, hurt or whatnot, all came back at me like they were serious accusations. And suddenly I felt so defeated. So useless. I’d lost my thread of argument. I’m lost. I don’t know where to go anymore.
I don’t think I’m numb, but that’s the only word that comes to mind. No matter how much I sleep, I can’t sleep this one away. I think I will move out. I’m waiting for my cousin to get back to me. I emailed her this morning for advice. If she is in agreeance, then I will move out, for good. My mother hates me. She hates that she loves me. She’s a sick, twisted, bitter woman who’s had her security blanket torn from under her.
She’s about ready to disown me altogether. She threatened to burn the rest of my letters and photos, the cards and all the things I ever made for her to spite me. There’s no getting through to her. She is lost to me. And in a way, I am lost to her.
“[your mother’s] a bad influence on you.”
No, going home is never a good thing for me.
I’ve been accused of as a selfish child, a wilful teenager. An immature adult. What else is left? Where else do I go? I have to step into the mouth of the lion’s den. Not out of choice, but out of no other reprieve. I feel so defeated.
There is no connection between us. I don’t think there ever really was. Not a real one. A tenuous one at best. And most of it was her deceiving herself that I loved her half as much as she loved me. And I hate that this is the case. But the more I think about it, the more I thought about it all those years, the more I realise that it is most likely true. I don’t love her – not really. She’s just always been my mother. No more, no less. And I think in a way I despised her. I’m so tempted to ring my father up and ask him why he left her. If she pushed him away. If there was more to it than the fact that he fell for another woman. If there was a moment in time when he realised he no longer wanted her, and why that came about. Mum has never been high on my list. I’ve only ever found her annoying. Found her a pathetic little creature that clings to others for sustenance. I think I watched her go through their divorce with dispassionate eyes. And while she did fight for certain things, the fact that she clung to us, and put so much responsibility on me, I think I resented it. I wanted my freedom to do as I choose. And suddenly I was thrown into a situation where I was required to act a certain way. I guess in a way I never got the chance to explore and really ask myself what I wanted out of life, and given the opportunity to experiment.
There are still moments when I can’t bear to leave family, but those times are coming far and few in between. It’s getting to the point where there’s nothing at home to offer me. The mother daughter relationship has deteriorated to the point where all we talk about is money. It’s my last remaining connection with her. This is it my friends, this is it.
He will never understand.
posted by Enigmatic Butterfly @ 1:22 pm
1 Comments:
I take it you are a first generation Australian. Welcome to the world of conflicting family values and cultural irresponsibility. In a sense you are a pioneer, but like I've always maintained, she will come around in time.
Granville, Lidcombe, Strathfield, Ashfield, Redfern - Girl you must live near me! =)
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