We all got into another row yesterday afternoon. Yeah, big shock there. My father who is notorious for his disastrous painting escapades still insists upon undergoing such an undertaking, despite my mothers qualms and concerns. Even going as far as to vehemently protest against the use of hired help from a professional and recommended painter. And when I query him in hopes of aiding my mother’s side in their uncomfortable household conflict, his rage and fury is then directed upon me, snapping back with his usual misguided rhetorical questioning.
“You’re so rich aren’t you.”
It is a phrase they both delight in showering me with and I am beginning to question their innocence in throwing such words carelessly about. I believe they know all too well how much that kind of talk minces and shreds my insides and yet they feel compelled to continue on with this repulsive torture. In me trying to do some good and in taking allegiance to my mother’s side I’ve unintentionally brought fresh bloodshed to my doorstep. And why is it so imperative that he not proceed with this innocuous home DIY? Well, aside from the atrocious workmanship of the occasional cheap black bristle cemented onto those crisp white walls, the lines upon lines of running paint that has trickled down from an over-saturated brush and the numerous paint splatters we’ll uncover on the dark flooring, it’s more to do with the fact that he’ll also end up making use of paint cans that have been sitting idle for years. The last time he actually painted was at the end of last year, right after my brother moved out and into your home and that stench of toxic fumes lingers still! I also caught an inconvenient cold and then an irritated sore throat, so I dread the thought of what may happen with this spontaneous endeavour of his since he is insisting on painting both kitchen, dining and living rooms. That is virtually 90% of the entire downstairs area. But then I thought up a brilliant plan whilst banging my head away against my desk. A plan that involved me going to stay at their beach house for a day or so. Just while he was busy playing handyman.
It truly was ingenious thinking on my part, since I’d spent far too much time fretting about the unnerving inevitable. It was fool-proof at that. I even allowed myself to get enthusiastic for the humble possibility that I may actually have some alone time to finally persist on with some much-needed writing. And then I began making mental notes of what I needed to pack and more frivolously, what to wear. But when I suggested such an astute plan I was stunned to find it met with bitterness and indignation. There was just such a real disbelief that I could ever, ever ask of them such a thing. They straight out dismissed me, huffing and puffing away reason upon reason as to why it would be a cold day in Hell before I ever set foot there without them.
Their main point of rebuttal was that I was unemployed and for me to go to their beach house was absurd since that house is for vacations and I am apparently always on vacation. They continued droning on and on about the definition of a holiday house and I almost expected them to comically pull out a pocket dictionary from the back pockets of their pants.
But they were not going to let me use it. Period.
Well I know where they can go straight to because I actually thought they’d appreciate some time away from me too since my mere mortal existence is just so unbelievably unbearable for them. I truly believed some space and distance would be beneficial for both parties, yet for reasons unknown, they insist on keeping me around. Masochist much?
What was I even thinking to begin with? The last time I asked was if I could use that house to bring in the New Year with my friends and they outright refused me, and all because they have foolish prejudices against certain friends of mine. Acting and talking like my friends come straight out of the ghetto or some shit like that and judging them on purely their appearances. But when it comes to my brother? Oh him and his delinquent mates can venture there anytime they please. They’ve spent countless Sundays desperately letting him know that he is free to make use of it whenever he likes. They’d practically pay him to visit if it did any good.
But me? What the hell is so wrong with me? They just don’t understand me; never have and never will. And I hate how they so brazenly favor him over me. And it’s not just now, it has always been this way, even before I screwed everything up (in their eyes at least). From the moment that boy came along I ceased to matter to them. You know dad used to play all kinds of games with me when I was little, especially sports. I remember how once he even built me a little putting range for us to practice our pathetic golf swings on in the backyard. But then he came along and suddenly they had the child they always wanted. A boy. So he no longer played sports with me, because it was all about the boy. He reserved all that energy and attention to do those masculine things with his masculine child. Even now with the World Cup proceeding he still saves his excitement and spirit for when my brother comes over. But he doesn’t give a shit about the game, yet here I am, more than eager to have a partner in crime to revel in those celebrations with. I religiously stay up until the wee hours of the morning to watch our team play with him. I constantly run to him with news of injuries or video commentary about our players, but he still insists on reserving his liveliness solely for my brother. During our last match he even yelled at me for being to boisterous over a missed goal. Yet had my brother been seated with us or rather instead of me he’d yell the roof right off this house with his dysphoria.
I’m so sick of everything and everyone around here and I am just plain tired from not being able to breathe. And all for the fear that I may rub someone the wrong way. I try to stay positive but it’s hard with this constant pressure and those piercing eyes shooting daggers your way every time they met yours. I don’t know how much longer I can withstand this all since there really is no bettering the situation. Aside from me obviously moving out or perhaps even moving into my car, permanently rendering me homeless. There’s still another week with them around before the possibility of them going to that house again for the weekend but I’m not sure how much more I can endure. Then again miracles do happen and maybe my father will have a change of heart and permit me to go and stay there. It is a long shot but I’m hoping.
Hope is always all I have,