Livin' On A Prayer

Living on my own as been a mixed bag.

In one week, I started a new relationship, contracted a UTI, went to urgent care twice and the Emergency Room once, and was misdiagnosed twice. That was fun. Happily things have been sorted out.

I really like my new boy, Yon Faire Newcomer. A boy I met when I met Mistah Jay, who apparently wanted to ask me out. But Mistah Jay I guessed dibs'd me or something, and YFN pussied out. Point being, he called me up and asked me out, and to my surprise, I said yes.

I said yes to someone who is NOT Mistah Jay.

Anyway, YFN is fantastic. I couldn't have made it through this month without him. Could not. His family adores me.

It's finally what I wanted.

Anyway. Living with Bubby and his finacee is coming to an end. She Who Must Be Kept decided that she isn't making Croc leave, like she promised me. In her words, she had a choice between me and her, and she chose herself. She said Croc makes her a better person and is saving her.

I told her that if someone is "making" you a better person, you're doing it wrong. You should do those things or yourself. Another person can inspire you, but shouldn't be your motivation.

People are not good anchors.

So now I'm moving in with Rosie and her sister. For free.

But I just want to go home.

Baby, We're Bent Not Broken

I'm almost thirty minutes into the New Year. 2012.

I didn't think I'd make it this far.

I'm sitting in my best friend's apartment, The Boondock Saints on the television. I've been crying for ten minutes, at least.

Croc is coming back. This is a horrible idea for everyone involved, me, She Who Must Be Kept, Croc. He started to drive up here two days ago. SWMBK didn't tell me because she didn't want to upset me.

Oops. That worked well, huh?

When this was originally mentioned, he was supposed to stay two weeks. Now it will be longer than two weeks, but "hopefully" not longer than a month.

I told SWMBK that I am leaving.I cannot take living with him. I cannot. I don't have this kind of energy. I don't have it in me. I... I don't know what to do anymore.

Bubby and his fiancee had said I can live with them and pay a small rent fee. It is temporary. SWMBK promised. And she's paying my rent because she didn't think it was fair that she's bringing someone into my home that makes me so miserable. Miserable enough for me to leave.

"You don't have to go. I don't want you to go. Please try. Please try to live with him."

"Mom, every word out of his mouth is something negative and I don't need that."

"No no, I made him promise this time he'd be still!" You have to get him to promise to shut up. Yeah, he should sooo move in.

"No, that's not good enough. He has sooo many ideas about what I should do around the house, you know, in my abundance of free time because I don't work and go to school. But he never does anything. I'm fucking tired of coming home from standing on my feet for five hours, or sometimes for ten hours, and having him lay around on our couch. Why the hell is he so tired? What did he do all day?"

That was, of course, really unfair for me to say. Anyone can sleep whenever they want, really. Maybe he was tired because he is chronically ill. I don't know.

"I know, but it won't be like that this time."

"Yes, it will. He has problems everywhere he lives and he's sure it isn't him. Well, he's the common denominator! And it's all waaaah, my life is sad. Well, fuck, he needs to fix it and I don't want to hear about it."

"I just want you to try!"

"I tried it for six months."

"I knew you'd leave. I knew you were going to leave."

"Then why are you so surprised?"

"I just feel like you're abandoning me."

I don't want to leave. I don't. I want to stay there. My cats are there. My beloved BED is there. My sewing machine. My books. My mother. Everything. I want to stay there.

(How can I be leaving my cats? I am the worst Mommy ever.)

"I'm sorry. I'll pay the rent. I'm sorry. I'm the reason you're leaving."

The thing is, she SHOULD be able to have people move in if she wants. I'm the one with the problem. I should leave, I shouldn't make her change her life to suit me. We're both adults.

It's just...

I wanted her to pick me.

Just this one time.

Surprisingly...

I've never gotten along too well with my father's mother. I don't fit her ideal of what a woman my age should be. My cousin does beauty pageants and is a cheerleader and gets decent grades.

I never did any of that stuff. I wrestled. I went to a charter school. I write novels. I play Dungeons and Dragons. I'm dorky and get good grades. She doesn't get it. And in a way, that's okay.

I usually HATE writing my Christmas list to her. She never gets me what I want. So the past couple years, I started being super general. I want pajamas, slippers, my favorite perfume, gloves, a scarf, and earmuffs.

Sometimes I want a generic black hoodie. Sometimes I want boots, but usually she'll just give me a gift card because she's worried about the pin in my foot and what I can wear.

This year, she bought me a FABULOUS fuzzy jammie set. WITH MATCHING SOCKS.

"Oh, I know you like pajamas. I wanted to get you the warmest, most comfortable pair I could find." Wow. Thanks! I said as soon as I come home from work I get dressed in pajamas. "You should. You're relaxing."

Also I'm a cold sleeper so these are awesome! AND THEY'RE RED. SHE REMEMBERED RED IS MY FAVORITE COLOR!!!

I opened my perfume. "I am so sorry! I forgot what kind you liked. I just knew it was purple and had to do with the moon or something." It was Twilight Woods. I like Moonlight Path, but this stuff smells close and I'm not bothered. Hell, she got me two bottles and two bottles of perfume!

"It's okay! I like this, too!"

"Well, you're allergic to stuff and if you can't wear it--."

"It'll be okay. Thank you!"

Then she was worried because my gloves didn't PERFECTLY match my earmuffs. They were pretty close, and I wasn't bothered! I thought they looked cuter that way. And the scarf she picked is beautiful.

And there's a problem with my financial aid right now. My grandmother whipped out an insurance policy she got on me when I was small and figured out how much I can borrow, and if all else fails, get on the payment plan, and then borrow against the policy. So I can finish.

And *this* was the biggest surprise.

"I've been talking to your dad. It really isn't fair that you're working and going to school and he's not helping." Well, it kind of is. I mean, I am an adult? I should have to do these things.
"So I told him he has to give you graduation money, because you really do need it. And you know what, if you need help paying for school, he's helping. I'll talk to him, because that's not fair. You're so close."

Well! Thanks Grandma!

Every Time You Point Your Finger, Three More Point Right Back At You

When I was young, She Who Must Be Kept had a best friend with two step kids and two children she had birthed. Her daughter was significantly older than me (and particularly bossy, so I didn't care for her at all), and her son was right around Big Brother's age, so they were about two years older than me.

As you can imagine, I really hated going over to this friend's house, because there was never anything for me to do. Big Brother and the son would run off to do secret boy things that I wasn't allowed to participate in, and the daughter would never let me color with markers--even when I was allowed to according to She Who Must Be Kept, or wouldn't let me drink my juice box, or pick a tape for the VCR or anything. She was pretty much a bitch, actually. I never did get around to liking her.

So, usually, I ended up hanging around in the kitchen where SWMBK and her friend would park themselves at Carrie's table. They'd sip on cups of coffee while I hid against the counter and tried to be inconspicuous. If I was found out, I was always told to "go play", which meant whining after my brother until he got screamed at to let me play.

Carrie and SWMBK typically complained. About their jobs, husbands, and most of all--their children.

It seemed like they saved up every naughty thing we had ever done and complained about it.

"And THEN he got an F! Can you believe that?"
"He got detention for throwing a spit ball."
"She broke curfew by thirty minutes. I was worried sick!"
"She wandered away from me in the store *again*. I'm so tired of it!"

I hated it. Hated hated hated it. Because Carrie hadn't been there, and Carrie didn't get my side of the story. Even at seven, I knew this wasn't fair. Once I burst out in tears as my mother started in.

"Do you know what Tai did earlier this week? It's terrible, she---."

"Stop it!" I cried. SWMBK turned to stare at me. "Don't tell that story! It's about me."

"I can tell whatever story about you I'd like. I'm your mother and you just have to deal with it. If you don't want me to repeat things that you've done, you'd better not do them."

I sobbed like I had a broken heart. I did, and still do, thing SWMBK was cruel to word it that way. Carrie told her off and said I was right, and if a story upset me, it shouldn't be repeated.

But it's led me to thinking, ten or so years later. What if I'm repeating stories that SWMBK wouldn't like? Do I have to ask her permission to have a blog on the Internetz? Does it even matter? All these strangers read it, but *they don't know who I am*. Does that make it better or worse?

The One I Can't Replace-Ode to a Big Brother

"Taima is headstrong, and loyal to a fault."

These were the words spoken about me at my high school graduation. The instructor giving the speech about all ten of us made it seem like a good quality. Something everyone should aspire to.

I barely heard the words that were said that night. I barely remember the words that I spoke myself when I gave my own speech a few minutes later. I have told everyone since that this is because I was hopped up on codeine for the sprained ankle that just wouldn't heal.

It's true that I was high that night.

I was high on my own adrenaline of accomplishment. I, for one in our lives, had something that you didn't. I had gotten to something *first*.

But more importantly, you were there. Getting you to see me walk the stage had been a fight. She Who Must Be Kept wasn't going to make you do it. You had claimed that all I was doing was rubbing in your face that I had graduated and you didn't. And she, like always, bought it hook line and sinker. I raised complaint to the therapist, and you were made to go.

For once in my life, you weren't allowed to ruin my day.

"Taima is headstrong, and loyal to a fault."

The day you left was the only time in my whole life that I can remember you telling me you loved me.

I don't know if you love me always, or in that moment you loved me. Loved me because I sounded so lost and pitiful, telling you that you didn't have to go, and I would talk to our mother, and I would make it okay, you could stay!

"Take care of Mom for me. I love you."

Perhaps that day you loved me because when Croc tried to pull his shit, like he always does, I ripped into him. I had Had Enough, and when I have Enough, things start happening. You might have loved me because I was defending you, and you've never felt that anyone in the world has done that before. But there's a lot that you were so blind and deaf to. Everyone was fighting for you... You were just fighting yourself.

I've always been more patient than you. This is probably because I grew up as your little sister. While I sat and waited for people to love me, for people to be able to give me what I needed, you demanded it. I fell into relationships, holding my arms out and trusting that someone or something would be there to catch me when I hit the bottom.

You launched into relationships, clawing and ripping the other person, desperate to hurt them before they hurt you. Eager to establish that status quo, because you knew what it meant to be hurt and you were tired of me.

I... I knew what it was to be hurt too, but I managed to climb up from the dirt when no one caught me. You sought revenge, while I sought to protect people from all the things that had happened to me. I didn't know that this made me more vulnerable, in the end. I've learned my lesson now, learned it through hands on my throat and the way that I cried in the shower, alone and empty, because no one wanted to hear it.

But in the end, I was able to protect and save myself when there was no one to do it.

There should have been someone there to do it. But you demanded everything our mother had. You sucked her dry. She and I have had discussions... Discussions about why she focused so much on you, chose to save you in all the ways that she couldn't save me.

There was only so much to her. And you took everything, while I survived on guilt and empty promises.

We've discussed why she let you beat the shit out of me. For years. Why she let you degrade, belitte, and ABUSE me. For years. You were, and still are, an abusive person. I can't say that I blame you. I can say that I didn't deserve what happened to me.

Nothing you did was okay. There is about a decade of my life that is just Not Okay. And never will be. It's taken me a lot of therapy to come to that conclusion. I am not a bad person.

I am not ugly. I am not worthless. I am not unlovable.I am not stupid. I am not any of the things that you said I was. I suspect you said these things to me because you felt them about yourself, and if it was true about me, it couldn't be true about you, because we were just so opposite.

You struggled to survive the most basic things in life, for reasons I will never understand. You had the tools. You knew what you had to do. I guess you were just waiting for someone to come and save you from yourself.

And more painful than that, you watched me soar. You watched me graduate, get friends, relationships. You watched me have a very strong relationship with our mother, based on trust and honesty and forgiveness. You watched me get into college and soar there, too. You watched me be such a loved person, even though you tried to pull me down, and make me miserable with you.

I don't apologize for that.

I have every reason to hate you. And yet, I don't.

"Taima is headstrong, and loyal to a fault."

In this month or so since you've run off, I've spoken to you more than in the past two years of living with you. You and I have our own language, our own inside jokes. We have the things that strike us and no one else has funny. We have Queen and Iron Maiden.

We have a love of World War Two. Although while you are scouring maps and battle plans, I am reading the accounts of the death camps, and the ways that this changed humanity. We love brown soda, although you like Pepsi and I adore Coke.

We lived through the same bullshit. We lived with the same alcoholic father, the same neglectful, unstable mother. You were the only one who validates me. I could always look at you and know that the screaming fights and broken glass were real. I didn't make them up in my head.

We survived. We both bare the scars, although in very different ways. You are cruel and callous to all but a very--VERY few. I am kind and loving, neurotic about those that I care about, desperate for approval and adoration.

"Taima is headstrong, and loyal to a fault."

You still call me "baby sister".

I still call you "big brother".

When you left that day, when you told me you loved me... Who were you seeing in your head? Were you seeing the six year old, trailing after you with skinned knees and tangled hair, clutching her Pooh Bear?

Were you seeing the thirteen year old, in long black skirts and too much lipstick, scowling at you and pretending she knew better?

Were you seeing the the twenty one year old woman, in high heels and tight dresses, with short hair and clear eyes, carrying her textbooks?

In your head, just who am I?

I know for me... You're the one I can't replace.

"Taima is headstrong, and loyal to a fault."

I know where my loyalties lie.

I Know That I've Let You Down

Dear She Who Must Be Kept,

I have, to the best of my ability, tried to keep the peace around here. After our last discussion about how I hurt you and make you feel like a failure, I have done my best to be better. I wasn't sure how, as you can never give me a clear answer about what I do wrong, but I tried.

Which is more than I can say for you.

For four years I begged for help to get a room. You resisted and refused and threw a fit. For about three days my bed sat in my room untouched because you refused to ask Croc to put it together, even though he was the only one who could. Because for you, it was better for me to lay sleepless on the couch while you and Croc caroused on school nights until four in the morning.

But I am the one who hurts you.

After this last fight where you couldn't give me a clear answer about what I do wrong... After you couldn't even give me a clear answer about what I could do DIFFERENTLY to make you happy...

I'm more or less done.

I cried a lot. I cried for probably three straight hours. I woke up twice in the middle of the night and cried. I cried for my own confusion, my pain, my sense of abandonment; which is nothing new coming from you. You've always been obsessed with making sure that when I was gone, you had someone else to catch you when you fell.

But I'm done crying. I am. Know why?

You. Are not. Worth it.

You have shown me numerous times that I'm not worth your time--your love--you are, by that token, not worth my tears.

And it kills me to say things like that. I'm sure if you knew you'd fly into another rage that you're so famous for anymore. Good job icing me out, by the way! I love that you only do that when Croc is around, too.

You must think I'm stupid. Please. You raised me better than that.

Also, clinginess will drive your friends away faster than the supposed crimes your 21 year old has committed. Just--just saying.

I get that the way you treat me is nothing personal. OlderBrother refuses to listen to a word you say. You can't change your job. You've got yourself in a pit you can't get yourself out of. I get that screaming at me is all you think you can do. I'm the only one that listens.

Just remember I'm the only fucking thing you've got. And you're driving me away. I don't see how you think this is going to make you a winner in the end.

And to say I don't appreciate you? That I've never told you that? You can just piss right off, you martyr. That is such bullshit and we both know it. I'll just remind you of that damn diamond ring I got you. Oh and the notes I leave you for on the TV telling you how sorry I am you work so hard and how glad I am to have you? That's... What?

I can't wait to leave. And you're going to cry when I'm gone because you already do. I don't know what you're mad about, but I just can't fix it. YOU fix it, YOU fix YOU. That's what you've always told me.

And that mysterious thing you claim has been making me depressed since October? You're the only one who sees it. The quotes I've gotten; "You're only depressed when your Mom gets after you."


...Yeah.

I think you're projecting.

So, just remember that I love you. I love you so much. You just can't seem to appreciate it.

-Taima

Well, All This is News to Me...

She Who Must Be Kept and I had a huge fight today.

Her friend Croc stayed the night the other night. And he then proceeded to keep me up all night long. Granted he was taking SWMBK to work because her car broke (and had to stay because he "didn't think he could wake up". Uh hi, guess what? My days and nights are switched because of my sun allergy. I still get my ass up and go to school and get good grades. If I had a job, I'd get up and go to that, too! He's FORTY TWO YEARS OLD. What kind of grown ass man can't get up on time?!!? ), but I was told too late to call Bubby and see if I could crash there for the night. I suppose him being there didn't really bother me. What really bothered me was the fact that he took SWMBK to work forty five minutes away, turned around, and came back here to go to sleep.

The last time SWMBK left me alone while I was sleeping, I was ten years old. That man then enticed me into bed and was very inappropriate with me. I have a strong dislike for sleeping in rooms with men of a certain age. Frankly, I hate sleeping in rooms with people that I'm a) not friends with or b) not dating unless there's someone there to guard me.

And anyway, Croc has his own house. He has his own place to live (well, he rents a room from people, but still). Why come back here and make it difficult for me to start getting around to go to class? To make matters worse, he muted the television which I use to gauge what time it is, and he broke the kitchen light. And now he can't fix it. Awesome. I love making Hamburger Helper in the dark. Thanks, douche!

I complained to SWMBK. Her response? "But he couldn't sleep at (place he's staying)! There's too much noise."
"So what? So I should not get any sleep after a night of not getting sleep? I don't care that he couldn't sleep at his own house. He's forty two. Suck it the fuck up."

This launched some sort of strange argument wherein SWMBK said that I a) hold the nine hundred and fifty dollars out of my loan money I lent her over her head b)think she's a monster and c) make her feel like a fuck up. Oh, also, there's been tension between us for months, and I've been an emotional wreck.

This is all news to me.

In the first place, no I don't hold the money I lent her over her head. I don't care. What I care about is that essentially, I pay bills here, and I don't get to have a say.

"Well you just want things to be run your way!"
"No, Mom, I don't. I want to have a say."
"See? You want power!"
"Power? Who said anything about POWER? I want to have a SAY!"
"How is say and power any different?"
"Because having a say is having input and power is demanding. I just want a say."
"A say in what?"
"In where I sleep!"
"Well, you didn't say that! You just said you wanted a say." What does it matter what I want a say in? The point is, I pay bills, so I should get a say. It's like paying rent to an apartment building and then having them decide when you should turn your lights off anyway.

And then it turned into how I make her feel like a monster.
"Nothing I do is good enough for you."
"In what way?"
"In that you get upset and I apologize and you're still mad."
"Because something happens, I get upset, and you apologize. That isn't my issue. I appreciate it. My issue is when you then add; "But it's my house." It's like you erased everything you just said."
"How?"
"Because it's like saying you don't care about the way I feel. It's like saying you could give a shit less. It's like kicking me in the teeth, basically."
"So because I have empathy, I'm kicking you in the teeth?"
"It doesn't feel like empathy when you turn around and say it's your house."
"I'm just stating a fact."

Like hell. When she adds on "It's my house." she means I should shut up and deal with it. She's always said that. It means, when used on me; "I know I'm wrong, but I can do that because I pay the bills." Ah HA, but I pay bills too, right? Apparently that doesn't mean anything to her.

She then said; "What can I do to make you happy!??!"
"Buy me a mattress....? But I'm not even mad!"

As for the tension and being an emotional wreck... I'm not even mad! What the fuck? This has been going on all winter, according to her. What? How? I haven't even been home that much! She cited an incident when she called me while I was at my friend's house so I could *help her fix the remote*.

It was eleven thirty at night. I was across town. I was drinking. I was with friends. And she called, not to see how my day had gone, if I was okay, or to tell me good night. Instead it was; "I broke the remote. Can you remember how to set it."
"No, Mom."
"Well, you wrote down the code."
"I think it's in my school notebook in my bag on the red chair."
"Where in the red chair?"
"RIGHT ON TOP! If you can't find it, I can't help you. I'm not right there."

Tonight, SWMBK told me that had hurt her feelings.
"I feel like I was just inconveniencing you."
"You were. It was eleven thirty, I was drinking, I was with friends, and you wanted me to tell you about the stupid remote. OlderBrother was home. He could have Googled it for you. You have two kids."
"I know that."
"And it REALLY bothered me that you didn't call to say good night. You never do. You call when you WANT something. Something I can't even give you because I'm not even home!"

When I stayed with Mistah Jay at the dorms, I used to call her every night to see how her day was and tell her I loved her and good night. But she never does that for me.

She said that I've done things all winter to make her thing I'm mad at her. But she never brought them up at the time. I can't fix things unless she can tell me what I'm doing wrong. And I don't even think I'm doing things wrong! She DID admit to me that she obsesses over things and makes them into bigger issues.

I told her that when she has issues like this, she has tunnel vision (and right now it's Croc vision. She said she thought our issues went before him, I disagreed. My only issues with her have revolved around him!) so she doesn't see the whole picture. So when people say things, she takes it completely wrong, because she can't see EVERYTHING.

She agreed.

I also told her that a lot of my drama has been with Mistah Jay, and if I seem bothered, it really isn't her.

"And it breaks my heart. You're so upset without him, and I don't feel like you see what a beautiful, wonderful person you are." (But I thought I made you feel like a monster?)
"I know that. I'm just really unhappy without him. And I had a miscarriage in April."
"...You did?"
"Yeah."

Pretty much she took back every nasty thing she'd said in that fight when she saw me sobbing about Vivian, whom she referred to as 'It' and not 'your baby', which was bothersome. But she still took it better than what I thought she would.


She then asked why I wasn't currently on birth control. I said not sleeping with anyone was my current method of choice. 100% and all that. Then, this came out of her mouth;
"But what if you're out with your friends and you see someone and they're... You know... Cooking with gas!"

And that, my friends, ended the fight.

If I Could Burn This All to the Ground

I wish I could burn my mother's house to the ground.

She Who Must Be Kept has a problem with hoarding. It isn't like that show on TLC or whatever. She just cannot for the life of her throw away a single piece of paper. In our bathroom, in the cupboard under the towels, there are boxes and boxes of papers. Old light bills from 1989 when we were living in the trailer. Papers of my father's from when he was on unemployment in 1988.

These are things that do not matter. And yet she cannot throw them away. I do not have this problem, and I will throw away old papers by the handful. I like to do what I call purges, where I go through the house and just--throw stuff away, arrange for things that are good (like books or clothes) to be given to the used bookstore or Goodwill or Saint Vinny's.

She Who Must Be Kept can't do this. I don't know why.

On television there's some crime drama starring a hoarder. We're nowhere near that bad. You can see our floor. You can walk through the house. We're healthy. The house itself is falling apart, but that's unrelated.

SWMBK whines and cries and talks about how she wants to change. She wants to be better. She wants to be different. Sometimes I wish I could slap her and tell her to put up or shut up. That she's the only one who can help herself.

But she never does.

I wish I could burn all this to the ground so we could all start from square one. So I could be aware this time around and not let her get that bad.

I guess though, she isn't my responsibility.

Sober

It's two in the morning.

I don't feel like sleeping.

I can't sleep, more to the point.

I've realized how fragile sobriety is. I am the adult child of an alcoholic. I am the baby sister of another addict. While I have imbibed myself more than a time or two, I can safely say I am not an addict. I can never drink again and I won't miss it.

I won't pretend that quitting the codeine I was prescribed for my pain wasn't hard, especially after months of being pumped full of other pain killers... Especially when, to a point, I needed it. I needed help to manage my pain.

But I was never an addict.

Statistically, I am incredibly likely to become addicted at some point in my life. I've been warned by professionals. It was never a warning I needed.

I remember screaming fights. I remember my father hitting my mother. I remember breaking glass. I remember most--being afraid.

I'm twenty one years old. I haven't spoken to my father in eight years. I'm really afraid of him. He could and would lift his hand to me. He did when I was a child. I remember him being drunk and slapping me for laughing at the table.

The booze makes him a very unpleasant person.

OlderBrother is the same way. Booze makes him a not so nice person. He and I have had screaming fights. I have reduced him to tears. He has reduced me to tears. He has, more importantly, reduced She Who Must Be Kept to tears.

He's an addict. He has admitted that alcohol and marijuana are the only ways that he can feel okay. He has bought/begged/and I suspect stolen prescription drugs from my mother and myself. He is headed to a very bad place very quickly.

I get frightened when I drink, sometimes. I snap. I yell. I get angry.

It's not a place I like being.

And yet....

I still drink sometimes.

If You Can't Act Like An Adult.

She Who Must Be Kept's friend Croc keeps coming over. I don't really care that he comes over. I'm sitting over on my couch by myself doing my own thing. Croc seems to forget I'm not made of stone and I *can* hear their conversations (as they are a grand total of four feet away from me).

Also, I am super protective of SWMBK. I might be twenty one, but I have no issues giving a grown ass man a tongue lashing if it calls for it, and what calls for it is when I see someone being mean to my mother.

Croc has a nasty habit of several things. 1. He's a martyr. 2. He rides a VERY high horse named Self Righteous. 3. HE NEVER LETS ANYONE FINISH A MOTHER FUCKING SENTENCE!!!

So tonight, he was riding S.R. and saying that my mother was being "abusive" to him, because she asked several times very nicely; "Hey, if you don't hear me, please don't look at me and say "Hunh?!?". I really hate it. If you misunderstood me or I didn't speak clearly, can you ask me to repeat myself?"

It's one of her pet peeves. I've been trained from a very early age to not do that. She also hates the word 'whatever' out of context.

So SWMBK finally told Croc in a joking way if he went 'hunh' again, she was gonna pop him one. He was on S.R and said he'd leeeeave. He didn't want to be abuuuuused. My Mom is abuuuuusive. God, grow the fuck up, dude.

I gently corrected him as to her issue. He said he was FORTY TWO and he couldn't be retrained, and if SWMBK didn't like it, he'd LEAVE.

Okey dokey... Moving on with our evening. He went back to calling SWMBK abusive. I had had enough. I jumped in his shit. I couldn't even finish a thought because he steam rolled over my sentences. Finally, frustrated and joking I said; "Mom, I think it's time for your friend to go home."

Sure enough, he gathered his ice tea and crucified himself. "Oooh, I'm causing conflict. Ooooh, I never bother ANYONE. FIIIIINE TAI WANTS ME TO GO!"

God. Whatever.

Can't Sleep, Clowns Will Eat Me

It's no secret that I sleep on the love seat downstairs, in the living room with my mother. My older brother has two bedrooms upstairs that he uses (the wall was knocked down between them).

She Who Must Be Kept has a friend called Croc. Croc got evicted from his home, due to a long and complicated series of events. Since then, he's been living on couches and in borrowed beds. It's all a sad story, and I do admire that he's making the best of it and he's not asking for handouts.

SWMBK wanted him to come and live here. I nixed that idea because, the fuck? I don't even have a room here. She wanted him to sleep in the room that I've been told I can't sleep in.

Anyway, I came home last night very late after hanging out with my friend Dante. Dante and I were furniture shopping because I'm potentially living with he and his girlfriend Rosie next year. Anyway, I get back at twelve thirty or one in the morning, and Croc was STILL here and SWMBK was still awake.

...Okay.

SWMBK proceeded to go to sleep. Croc sat on her couch WHERE SHE WAS SLEEPING eating potato chips and watching She Ra. I kept waiting and waiting for him to leave. But no. He just stayed, feeding the cats dill dip to the cats to see them make funny faces.

Finally, at four in the morning I went; "Are you staying here tonight?"

"Huh? Yeah, I guess I'd better. Too late to leave now."

WELL WHOSE FAULT IS THAT?!?!

And the guy doesn't sit STILL. He fidgeted all night long. It was four thirty before I could go to sleep. And it was creepy to try and sleep in the room with an awake person just chillaxing there.

I approached SWMBK and asked that Croc not stay with us anymore.

"Why?"
"Because I can't sleep."
"Well, what does him being here have to do with you being able to sleep? I don't understand."
"He's down there awake! I'm trying to sleep!"
"I just don't see why it's a big deal."


Epic.

No More Christmas.

I really don't like Christmas.

I don't like all the over hype, I don't like all the crowds, I don't like all the people who donate to some cause ONCE A YEAR and think that makes them a saint. I don't like trying to go to the store to buy some boots and ending up getting mowed over by some woman who has to get the new "It" toy or Jayden or Brayden or Katelynn or Maddisyn or whatever will be SO disappointed.

The things I remember from Christmas aren't the presents. The things I remember are crowding into my grandmother's tiny house with all our billion relatives and laughing and talking. I remember my aunt making me special Jell-O shots because I was sick so often, or had braces, or whatever. I remember seeing my cousins and being called "Dodie's daughter, you know the hippie one."

Apparently refusing to eat pork, talking about carbon emissions and overpopulation makes me a hippie. It's sort of amusing. No, Uncle, I don't want to go hunting with you. No, I don't know how to help you catch a buck all "scientific."

I remember baking cookies with my aunt. I remember eating candy glass with my cousin in the dining room and talking about boy bands. I don't remember my toys. I don't remember how many things I got or didn't get. I just. Don't. Care.

I'm not saying don't get kids anything. I'm saying--well, just remember that there's a lot beyond that, you know?

Now that I've been on a tirade about consumerism, allow me to be wee bit hypocritical and state what I got She Who Must Be Kept.

When my parents got married, my father turned to my mother and said; "You're not worth diamonds." That marriage is full of stories like this. And She Who Must Be Kept doesn't like diamonds anyway, but you know, it would have been nice to get them...

So, on black Friday, I bought her a diamond and sterling silver ring. It was twenty dollars, on super duper sale and all that. I know she won't wear it, I know she won't really like to wear it--but I just wanted to get it for the idea.

I think she's worth diamonds.

Dear Mother: Don't Throw Stuff At Me

Dear Mother,

I turned twenty one yesterday (because I'm writing this at two in the morning and today is the new yesterday). I am an adult now. I know I still live with you. I know you still pay my bills--except the ones you don't. Like my school tuition, you don't pay that. And you don't pay for my books. And you don't pay my cell phone bill. And you don't pay my doctor bills anymore, I'm on the hook for that after you didn't pay for the surgery I had like you PROMISED.

So basically, you're paying my food, my heat, my lights, my internet, and sometimes my bus back and forth to school. This is a lot. I will understand and acknowledge this. I even appreciate it. I appreciate it a lot!

This is why I go out of my way not to be a jackass to you. I wash your clothes. I cook your meals. I do the shopping. I do a lot of the cleaning. I don't do things I want to do and should be doing because I am twenty one. And I don't do them because you don't like me to do them.

You do not seem to understand, acknowledge or appreciate this.

So let's have a run down, shall we?

1. I wear noise cancelling headphones. You bought them for me. You bought them for me BECAUSE they were noise cancelling headphones. Because then I wouldn't have to turn my music up so loud, and so then I could put myself into my own little world while working and doing homework. Okay?
This means I CAN'T FUCKING HEAR YOU WHEN MY HEADPHONES ARE IN! I am not IGNORING you. I am not DISRESPECTING YOU! I am not DELIBERATELY BREAKING YOUR HEART AND RUINING YOUR LIFE BECAUSE I AM LISTENING TO MY MUSIC!!!! OKAY!?!? I. JUST. CANNOT. HEAR. YOU. Are we clear on that?
So basically, when the headphones are in and you want something like--the channel changed, your bowl taken to the sink, or the fan turned on, or something equally dumb and that you could do yourself; don't throw a book at me! Don't scream at me and then scream at me because you were screaming at me! Don't throw a ball of yarn at me!
JUST DO IT YOURSELF! You're a grown ass woman who can walk the four steps to the television--because you broke the remote--the seven steps to the sink, or the six steps to the fan, which is exactly between us so it's just as easy for you. Okay? Okay.

2. Shut up about my area. I have a grand total of FOUR FEET in this house. Yes, it's messy. Know why? I don't have a damn place to hold the (very little) I actually own. I used to have more, remember? But your son's boyfriend, who had thrown me down the stairs, and you still didn't make him leave, threw all that out in the snow and there was a lot you couldn't save.
So just shut up about it, okay? Because I would LOVE to move back up into my room and have space, and sleep in the dark with the television off if I feel like it. But every time I bring it up, you have a fit about it because you're not ready for me to.
So pick one.

3. Please start turning the television off before you decide it's bed time. Or let me. I haven't slept properly in months. This could be either because I sleep on a LOVESEAT that doesn't let me lay in any shape but pretzel, or because you insist on the television being on twenty four seven. And then you want it to be on the channel that plays those annoying infomercials that infect my dreams and give me nightmares. But you don't care! As long as you can listen to your Good Morning America or The Today Show or WHATEVER that is just DANDY, isn't it?

4. You have another child. A son. Remember him? Oh right, you prefer to sit on the couch and sob because you feel like he's a failure or something. Whatever. I quit listening. But don't think I'm going to waste my time trying to fix everything for you anymore, because you know how to fix this whole your son thing. Kick him out. You won't. But you know. So just shut up.

5. I love you. But that doesn't mean I'm going to let you be a bitch to me just because it suits you. You know better than that. Fuck.

-love,
Taima

Happy Birthday Mutti!

Today was She Who Must Be Kept's birthday. She turned forty five today. This means she birthed me when she was just barely TWENTY FOUR and my older brother when she was TWENTY TWO! Sometimes it's shocking to me to think that she was having kids when she was a year freaking older than me. I mean, I still watch cartoons. Children? How is that even possible?!?

But, I told all my friends I was busy today since SWMBK took it off (which she never does). We had to go and get her plates renewed and she needed a new license. To my surprise, the Farmer's Market was still going on outside of the Secretary of State. By the way, there was a bumper sticker in SoS that said; Recycle yourself! Become an organ donor! Now, I'm all for organ donation, I even have the sticker on my I.D. But I don't really see how that is going to endear it to anyway.

I got some organic!fresh!local! tomatoes. Three bucks for bigass ones, two bucks for a basket of cherry tomatoes. I love organic!local!fresh! stuff, but I don't like buying it at the grocery store. It always seems to cost a little too much, and I never feel like I can believe them.

Anyway, SWMBK wanted to drive the thirty miles to her hometown so we could go to the tavern and buy pizza. And we did. And oh dear God, it was worth the drive, and the price. (For three people, that's three drinks, one refill each, mozzarella sticks, and one large four topping pizza at thirty dollars.) It was seriously the best damn pizza ever. Apparently they make all of it from scratch.

Also, it turns out SWMBK is really good at pinball. Like, scary good. Like, setting new high scores on the machine good. It turns out she and my father used to go to that same tavern when they first met every Friday to play. She played all through her pregnancy with my brother, until she was too big to reach the buttons anymore.

I wondered if she missed my father tonight. If she wanted him there to celebrate being forty five. But, in the end, when she said it was the best birthday ever...

...Maybe she didn't miss him.

Not Like the Other Girls: A Letter to My Father

Mein Vater,

(Oh yeah, you didn't know that about me. I know some German now. There's a lot you don't know about me, I suppose, not the least of which is my--name.)

I will be twenty one in about a month. Can you believe that? I'll be legally able to do all the "adult" things I've been doing since I was a child. I'm already waiting for a birthday card that I know won't come.

Perhaps I'm foolish... naive... well, actually, I prefer to think I'm just hopeful. I'm probably a little too hopeful. It's led to some pretty crushing moments in the past, and this won't be any different. I know this.

I will be twenty one, and strangely enough, I won't be running to the bar and drinking. I won't be opening my mouth to pour the bitterness of Washing Everything Away down my throat. I am afraid of becoming an addict, like you. Thanks for that, by the way, I love living in fear of anything. Thanks for my addictive personality. Thanks for this genetic code that's buried somewhere deep inside of my skin, I know enough to understand that if it goes off, if I become like you, I am a Goner.

And that is one thing in life I never want to be.

I will be twenty one, and you will finally be Free of Obligations to Me. Then again, I suppose this is really not much of anything to you. You've been free of me since my thirteenth birthday. Except for that brief year and a half when you were forced to pay child support, since you left I've gotten nothing from you.

I wonder, Oh Giver of Half My Genes, if you think of me on October 17th. I wonder if you lay awake, I wonder if you pass by the birthday cake in Wal-Mart and wonder if I'm eating any. I wonder if you walk through a bookstore, pick up a novel here or there, and consider buying it to mail to me, just because I might like it. I wonder if you walk by the birthday cards and think about picking one up for me and signing them like you used to; Love, Daddy.

Love, Daddy. I have not read those words from you in a VERY long time, and I am coming to terms with the fact that I never will again. It's been a long time for me. I know that you blame me for all of this. You told me as much the day you left. You told me that I didn't love you enough, and so you were leaving.

Because thirteen year olds can ruin the lives of grown men. You must have been... Forty two then, I think? Mom would have been--thirty eight? This somehow doesn't sound right. But my calculator tells me this is true.

I've been doing some math lately. You know how bad I am at that, but I have been making the attempt. This isn't the kind of math that you can really use scratch paper for, though. I've been doing some math, taking all the ways you didn't love me from all the ways that you did.

And do you know? I keep coming up empty handed. This shouldn't be a surprise to you, but I have a nasty feeling in the pit of my stomach that it is. Most likely. Yeah, you'll be shocked like you always are when I can add up all the things you did not do for me. All the meager things that you did for me--well, they don't even compare.

And it's sick. It's sick that I can do this, and it's sick that I keep doing this, and frankly; I'm sick. I know that now. You have poisoned me, and I am finally opening myself up to bleed you out of me. It is messy, and I am constantly having to look away, but I am doing it.

Because if I don't, this poison will turn me black on the inside, and I'm pretty sure it could just kill me. Not like, literally. It would kill all these Good Things about me that people point out; it would make me a bitter, withered, lonely old shell. Like you.

I never want to be like you.

You know, sometimes I wish you could say you were sorry. You were sorry for saying those things to me when you left, and you were sorry for leaving me in the first place. I wish you could say you were sorry for leaving Mom like you did, and leaving me to pick up the mess that you left. (I never did it correctly. Yeah, thanks for that too.) I wish you could apologize for all the things we Went Without because we didn't have Enough because of what you took and didn't take when you left. Because of what you Didn't Give us. We didn't even get a door prize when you left, like so many other women and children did. You didn't think we were worth it, and wanted to punish my mother, and in doing so, my brother and I suffered.

I wish I could hear you apologize to me. But you're not sorry, and if I ever hear one more lie out of your rotten mouth, I will have to rip it off. I say this not out of violence, but out of honesty. It's a concept you've never grasped, but there you have it.

I wish you knew half of the Hell I've gone through since you left. I wish you knew what I've had to deal with. I won't bother to tell you, because I know what you'll say; "Well, if you had just APOLOGIZED to me...." Because I had so much to be sorry for? Perhaps the only thing I can apologize for is that I refused to swallow your scraps of love and pretend it's what I deserved.

I know better know. I know I deserve better. Better than whatever you wanted to give me. And believe me, it's been a long hard road figuring THAT one out, and I've had to deal with a lot of sick people, but hey... I'm there now, and sometimes it isn't the journey, it's the destination.

I deserve to be loved. I am worthy of that. And I know that first I had to realize that I had to love myself, and I do now. That was tough to swallow, a Big Thing, but I did that too. No thanks to you.

I know that if you could see me now, you'd tell me how proud you are of me. All I can say is; "Why? You didn't help. All that I am and all that I have done is really nothing to do with you." I'd probably then tell you in no uncertain terms to get away from me and stay away from me, and to stay the HELL away from my mother too, for that matter.

I am almost twenty one. I will be An Adult, though I'm sure that I've been one for a long time now. The calendar just now agrees with my soul. I will be An Adult. But you...You are still a child.

And that pretty much sucks.

-Taima Baudelaire

Please Don't Take A Picture

As I've previously mentioned, I currently live in the house belonging to She Who Must Be Kept (you know, my mother?). This has been precarious at the worst of times, and fine at the best. Which I've always come to consider interesting.

The reasons I live with SWMBK are as follows;
-I don't have a license. I could never afford to get one. Even if I could, we could never afford a car for me, and SWMBK works forty five minutes from where we live.
-I don't have a job. I couldn't afford to pay rent on a place in any case.
-I go to school full time and get free Internet at my house.

In the past three years, I've had two of my brother's boyfriends living with us, been kicked out of my bedroom, been sleeping on the couch, been working my ass off in college, been thrown down the stairs, had all my things thrown out, had my bedroom trashed...

Yeah, seriously.

I am reaching a point where I just don't want to live here anymore. I'm tired of sleeping on a love seat (since I was seventeen. I'll be twenty one in October). I'm tired of everyone my brother asks to live with us getting a free pass, but I still can't have a bed. I'm tired of my things being broken, thrown around, stepped on, and generally trashed ("But if you'd put them away!!!" "...Where is 'away', exactly? I have about four feet of space in this house that's mine.") .

Also, you have to understand the dynamic of my family. My mother is mentally ill, my brother is mentally unstable, there's a big difference that I won't go into right now, and I myself suffer from seasonal affective disorder. I do pretty well in the summer time, but winters get hellish.

"But Taima! Why can't you have a bedroom?" A good question you might ask. Because my brother's ex boyfriend got angry when he wasn't allowed to live in it, he filled it waist deep in garbage. I don't mean like, stuff and junk. I mean honest to God garbage. So my friend and my own ex boyfriend had to come and help me clean it up.

By the time that got done, our ancient ceiling caved in. So every time it rained, water would leak into my room, so a lot more of my stuff got ruined, including my bed. The water wrecked the wiring. So there's no electricity in that room.

At least, this is the reason She Who Must Be Kept has given me. I'm not stupid, and the real reason is; She likes having someone sleeping downstairs with her. She knows if I move back upstairs and our Noise Rule goes back into law, my brother will turn a temper tantrum. She likes having me around to get her drinks, change the channel, answer the phone, take her bowl into the sink, blahdy blahdy blah.

I just want a bed. I just want my own space. I just want to have a conversation on my phone and not have to sit in the bathroom or on a porch. I can't really have them in the living room because She Who Must Be Kept will interrupt every fifteen seconds to ask who I'm talking to, what are we talking about, and try to chime in.

So today, my financial aid went through. Only it was slashed by a thousand dollars, which is a pretty sizable difference. I am now left with enough to pay my tuition, but not enough for books or supplies. When She Who Must Be Kept called me to tell me this, she yelled at me for crying.

And then figured out that it was my fault, because I filled out the FAFSA, using the numbers she gave me. Which I read back to her twice. But okay, yeah, my fault. Only now she seems to be harboring a grudge. Every time I ask her a question, I get yelled at. Is my brother home? YES! Did she have a good day at work? WHATEVER! IT WAS FINE! I quit talking, and then I get accused of sulking.

Winning; I just can't do it.

I'm going to school for a career I'm not even sure is for me. I'm paying money and going to classes for something I'm not really thinking I should be doing. I'm living in a house I can't stand, with people that are slowly devouring my soul.

I don't own much anymore. Two Rubbermaid totes of laundry, a pair of sneakers, a pair of boots, a pair of sandals, perhaps two boxes of books. Maybe another bag of stuffed toys... I could move everything I own in one car load...

Living On The Edge (Er... Loveseat)

I'm twenty years old and I still live with my mother.

I don't have a job, and to be frank, I never have. My whole life I've been going to school and doing little volunteer jobs here and there. Oh, and babysitting. Lord, have I done a lot of babysitting in my time. (Two dollars per hour per kid, and I come an hour early for free! Wanna hire me?)

I really, really hate it.

It isn't that I hate my mother. Far from it, I love the woman. But I have no space. I sleep on the loveseat downstairs in the living room while she sleeps across the room on the big couch. This has been the arrangement since I was seventeen years old. At the time, it didn't seem like such a bad deal. I mean, I was going to be moving out soon.

But the stars in my eyes went out when the market kept crashing, and there just were no jobs. You'd have to beg, borrow, or steal a position even at the Taco Hell down the street from me. And trust me, this is not the Taco Hell that's GOOD in my town, this is the one that you only go to at one o clock in the morning when you're too drunk or too high to remember that you probably shouldn't go there.

They run out of lettuce on a regular basis.

So now I'm living on the couch, and the grand total of four square feet around it is all mine, containing my computer desk and chair, along with a couple crates and boxes of books and school papers that I'm saving.

What I'm really finding interesting is that--most of my friends are in the same predicament I am. Not the sleeping on a loveseat bit, but the living with their parents bit. The simple fact is that no one can afford to live on their own right now.

I remember it wasn't always this way. I remember a lot of kids moving out right after they finished high school. They got an apartment with a couple friends, started up at the local community college, and when they weren't studying or flipping burgers, they were partying. It was what we were all living for in middle school.

And no, nope. There's just no way it can happen. Even if you could scare up the rent, you wouldn't be able to go to school and work at the same time. Not unless you developed some kind of cloning machine, and even then you probably would be less worried about money because somebody would buy it from you. Or you'd be a mad scientist and you'd already be living in your mother's basement.

I digress.

It is just plain AWKWARD to live with our parents at this point. We're legally and, for the most part, emotionally adults. And yet we're still living under the rules of our parents (which is fair. We reside in their homes). I've seen some kids paying rent and still having to do a multitude of chores, still argue about tattoos and piercings and going out late.

It's the point where it's hard for our parents to consider us adults because we're not acting like adults, and it's hard for us to act like adults, because we're not being treated like adults. Now, I will say that you can still act like an adult while being treated like a child, and that'll get you far, blah blah blah, but there is a limit.

I know that even if I did have a job right now, I'd still be living at home. And you know what? It sucks.