It’s like home invasion, but worse


It’s like I’m not allowed to change my routine at all or else mother will freak out and yell at me like I did something bad. Because my chair in my office is slowly breaking down and getting louder every time I move, I decided today I’ll just stay in my room and bum around the internets on Dinah so I won’t cause any CACOPHONY OF WOOF… and then when mother comes in to bring me food she’s all pissed off at me because of, well, I don’t even know, to be honest– something about what happened to my fridge (the super-nosy newbie cats pried open the door just enough to negate the seal). She’s pissed because I choose not to answer her (and thus not feed into the Drama Monster), and that I’m withdrawn because I’m so weary of dealing with the Drama Monster shredding me apart for imaginary reasons. If I’m on Blastoise, I’m accused of “sitting around and eating everything.” She’s pissed because I still have only cursory interest in food. She only barely notices my drawing ability, usually handwaving it as some useless, expensive thing that I shouldn’t be wasting time on.

Well good lord, woman, what am I supposed to be doing? Oh, right, LOSING WEIGHT. (If such a thing can be doine in a vacuum.) Except I can’t exercise in this damned house without setting off the bulldogs, and I can’t go outside because it’s always a pain to get through that teeny tiny gap in the bushes without nearly tripping on the stepping stones or on the potholes in the grass… and she freaks out if I show any sign of exhaustion because OH MY GOD YOU’RE GOING TO DIE SEE THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU ARE BIG AND HERP A DERP A DING DONG AND YOU’RE JUST A BAD PERSON BUT I CAN’T LET YOU DIE, WHAT ON EARTH WOULD OTHER PEOPLE SAY EVEN THOUGH I DON’T CARE IF I DON’T HAVE ANY FRIENDS.



What would you have me do? How am I supposed to pass the time? NOTHING makes you happy. I’m taking steps to help myself but it’s either not fast/drastic enough for your liking, or you just don’t like it because you can’t take credit for it, or you think I have some ulterior motivation to undermine you. You don’t even love me, I’m just your pet/attic monster that you can take everything out on, and I’m supposed to feel sorry for you because my existence drives you crazy. I’m sorry, I just can’t… you used up your goodwill with me long ago, when I figured out that you probably weren’t an innocent victim of all those mean coworkers who lived to pick on you.

No, it’s not okay for you to just… charge right into my personal space to yell at me. It’s creepy, a blatant invasion of my private space and… just plain douchebaggy.

And she asks again why I feel I need treatment for depression, and says I don’t deserve it.

Inside, I facedesk. I want to cry, but I can’t… it’ll just make her yell more and set off the dogs. She’s certainly going to whine about and thus demonize me to Evil Stepfather. I feel very, very much alone right now… even as Kestine comes to troll for attention.

By the way, the contact information I got? It’s a dud. Well, that’s fun… I didn’t trust it to begin with, and now it seems I was right. Off to the internets for me… hopefully I can find someone who’s at least heard of email, because I don’t think I can take the thought of having to cold-call around. Hell, that phobia is already what keeps me out of the job market… just… ugh…

People want me to live in this world, but they aren’t giving me good reasons as to why.

Tags: ,

Comments are closed.