It's really funny...just last night I was thinking about how much different life would be if my mom hadn't died.
Well, anyway, at dinner thats where the conversation ended up. My dad was talking about how when Sharon was pregnant with me, I was the most perfect child ever. Lol, and when I came out, I would sleep...and I just made everything so easy. My brother on the other hand...she had said she thought Kevin was playing football in there, he just wouldn't stop...And later after he was born, I guess when he was about 2-3, he would never go to sleep, and eventually they would just let him come and sleep with them. At one point they got scared that something was wrong, and they asked a doctor what to do. And he said...they would just have to go through it, and not let him come into their bed, so that Kevin would learn how to sleep on his own. Lol, Kevin didn't like that idea...so...for thenext three weeks, every night between eleven and one, he would come and bang on their door. And when he went unanswered...he would bang his head. For hours at a time for 3 weeks, this toddler would be banging his head against the door, and they couldn't do anything.
So that got me all sappy, and all like "Awww, look what they had to go through, they must have reallty loved eachother". Then...
Then, he started talking about the death. It was the middle of the night...fifteen years from tommorow. One of the arteries in her heart burst, and the blood filled her lungs. Then all the gas left her body, pretty much one giant burp. And what happened...my brother (he was sleeping in their bed that night), nudged my dad, and said "Mommy make noise", and he rushed to the hospital.
When my dad came back, Kevin came running up to him. Full on running. And my dad looked him in the eye, and said "Your mom is dead, and she's never coming back." Yeah, the most difficult moment of his life. He almost cried when he was telling us right now (I don't really know why, because that's the one part that he's actually talked about before)
So, for the next....I don't know long, Kevin wouldn't let anyone near anything of my mom's. Nobody sat at her seat at the table, no one took the cups she used to drink from. Well anyway, one day, it was 8 months after the death, my dad calls my gramma, and says "Hey mom, how are you?" And kevin, on the couch, jumped off, fell off the couch, and ran to the phone, with a smile that nobody had seen since that day. He thought his mother was on the phone. And...that's where my Dad couldn't talk anymore, just cry.
Yup...
So later, my gramma was saying how I'm so much like my mom. Calm. Rarely get my emotions all wound up. Whereas Kevin, was almost entirely my Dad.
And then I got to thinking. If my gramma is the way she is, and I'm like my Mom...she must have been a really great person. And then I thought about how two days ago, we were going through this box of her things. She liked to sew. And Knit, and that kinda stuff. She made a couple of those framed pictures made of threads and stuff...I wanna keep one, But i dont know where I could put it. And I guess my gramma wants it more.
Idk...I wish I just knew more about my family. I don't know what she looked like; we have pictures, but we never look at them. I really wish I could have seen her growing up. With my gramma and everybody. And to see her, and my aunt, and my gramma when they were all in the same house, at their home. My grampa died before I was born, and my dad never let me go to any of the family reunions. So I know two aunts and gramma. Thats 3, out of a family of...well, the roster for the family reunion this year, was 2 1/2 pages long. So....I know like...less than 10 percent.
Not kool.
Not kool at all...
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Wednesday, July 4, 2007
WHORE
My god...I've been so happy. I really, really have, like I haven't been in such a long time. And all of it means nothing. At all.
My dad came home from Germany today. Me, Kevin, and my gramma all did the whole hug and greet routine, and then he went upstairs. Within moments, the argument starts. Part of me was wondering what they were fighting about, what was so important that they needed to fight about it so soon after his arrival, but the stronger part of me really didn't care. I just wanted them to stop. Soon it elevated to a point where when I was talking to my gramma sitting across the table, I couldnt hear her. Just the rambles and random idiocies spewing from the whore upstairs.
I hoped she was blessed with the deafness that normally came with old age. She tries so hard to be able to come out here during the summer, and she could spend the time with her sister, my Aunt Rosa, who treats her like a queen. Always ready to do whatever, go wherever, if she so desired. But no, for some reason I still ponder, she's here. Summer after summer, winter after winter, she is here.
And you know what is ruining everything. Shellie. Just her. Really, every single god damn thing is traced back to her. So when she called me to work in the kitchen, I muttered "I Hate You" under my breath, and couldn't will myself to move. She came again, and with great reluctance, my joints bent, and I went to the kitchen.
Interesting how today is the first day she's cooked since my dad left for Germany. And how funny is it that my dad thought he straightened that problem out. "Even when hes not here, you still need to keep up that ruse of motherhood." I wish I could say that. But its funny, because I often do. I always say "A mother is supposed to__________" but then, she just says "I dont have to do anything." What-fucking-ever.
When I forgot to set the table just right now, she came into my room and roared, "What are you doing, what makes you think you have to set the table?" Have I ever mentioned, I FUCKING HATE THE WAY SHE SPEAKS TO ME. LIKE I'M A FUCKING INFANT WHO NEEDS TO BE REMINDED OF EVERY FUCKING THING. GOD FUCKING SHIT, WORDS DO NOT DESCRIBE HOW MUCH I HATE IT. How much my temperature rises when I begin to think about her words. Gah.
What I was trying to say before that new thread of anger consumed me, was that I hate her system of everything. How I'm assigned to do everything. When she's here, everything is a rigid structure of unneeded rules, really only beneficial to her. When she was gone, it was just my gramma and I, and sometimes my brother, everything just worked. We would go into the kitchen, sometimes the table was set, and if it wasn't, we would just go do it. Not under compliance with any form of rule, just because it had to be done. Perfect balance of everything. It just worked. Everything, just worked. It's the same way when we're here with my dad. But no, heaven forbid Shellie might have to contribute to that system, the universal good. She's a person who will only do work, if they know that it will get them out of doing something else. God damn. I hate it. I'm sick of it. We all are.
And she wonders why instead of donating the other half of my bunkbed to Goodwill, my dad decided to put it to use, giving Shellie her own room. Because he's disgusted with him self for waking up next to her in the mornings.
I just want her to go.
Now
My dad came home from Germany today. Me, Kevin, and my gramma all did the whole hug and greet routine, and then he went upstairs. Within moments, the argument starts. Part of me was wondering what they were fighting about, what was so important that they needed to fight about it so soon after his arrival, but the stronger part of me really didn't care. I just wanted them to stop. Soon it elevated to a point where when I was talking to my gramma sitting across the table, I couldnt hear her. Just the rambles and random idiocies spewing from the whore upstairs.
I hoped she was blessed with the deafness that normally came with old age. She tries so hard to be able to come out here during the summer, and she could spend the time with her sister, my Aunt Rosa, who treats her like a queen. Always ready to do whatever, go wherever, if she so desired. But no, for some reason I still ponder, she's here. Summer after summer, winter after winter, she is here.
And you know what is ruining everything. Shellie. Just her. Really, every single god damn thing is traced back to her. So when she called me to work in the kitchen, I muttered "I Hate You" under my breath, and couldn't will myself to move. She came again, and with great reluctance, my joints bent, and I went to the kitchen.
Interesting how today is the first day she's cooked since my dad left for Germany. And how funny is it that my dad thought he straightened that problem out. "Even when hes not here, you still need to keep up that ruse of motherhood." I wish I could say that. But its funny, because I often do. I always say "A mother is supposed to__________" but then, she just says "I dont have to do anything." What-fucking-ever.
When I forgot to set the table just right now, she came into my room and roared, "What are you doing, what makes you think you have to set the table?" Have I ever mentioned, I FUCKING HATE THE WAY SHE SPEAKS TO ME. LIKE I'M A FUCKING INFANT WHO NEEDS TO BE REMINDED OF EVERY FUCKING THING. GOD FUCKING SHIT, WORDS DO NOT DESCRIBE HOW MUCH I HATE IT. How much my temperature rises when I begin to think about her words. Gah.
What I was trying to say before that new thread of anger consumed me, was that I hate her system of everything. How I'm assigned to do everything. When she's here, everything is a rigid structure of unneeded rules, really only beneficial to her. When she was gone, it was just my gramma and I, and sometimes my brother, everything just worked. We would go into the kitchen, sometimes the table was set, and if it wasn't, we would just go do it. Not under compliance with any form of rule, just because it had to be done. Perfect balance of everything. It just worked. Everything, just worked. It's the same way when we're here with my dad. But no, heaven forbid Shellie might have to contribute to that system, the universal good. She's a person who will only do work, if they know that it will get them out of doing something else. God damn. I hate it. I'm sick of it. We all are.
And she wonders why instead of donating the other half of my bunkbed to Goodwill, my dad decided to put it to use, giving Shellie her own room. Because he's disgusted with him self for waking up next to her in the mornings.
I just want her to go.
Now
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