Apparently, it's been exactly three months since I've updated this blog. I have things that are in my drafts, that I hope to be able coherently finish one day soon. As for everything else, here is the run down of my life these past three months:
--workschool let out
--worked at Alamo Drafthouse for a month, but it was a lot to do with my summer course
--taught a summer camp to middle schoolers (oy!)
--took my first online summer course (and aced it, thankyouverymuch)
--drove the bus for some other summer camps
--husband and I put together an amazing dresser with this plan from Refinery29
--am still in the process of helping my parents do whatever the hell it is they're trying to do
--found/rescued/fostering (God help me) six kittens
--am finally going to be an extra in two different films this week!
The rest of the summer? I'm hoping it will bring me a lot of healing. It's not that I'm broken or damaged, it's just that I'm a little bit scratched up at the moment with some familial issues. Surely others have experienced what I am going through right now, but it feels like I am on an island, waiting on edge for that next big wave, hurricane, or volcano to come and pull me away from my sanity. Well, whatever is left of that really.
Summer is a complicated issue for my father to comprehend apparently. As soon as I was out of my workschool, I could set my watch by the time he calls each day. It ranges between 11:45 and 1:30, depending on my having called him earlier in the day or not. Sometimes I make the mistake of calling him at 11, just simply telling him something that is going on or that I would think he thought was interesting or that I love him. Just reminders.
It's usually then he will start his daily check-in, "Are you feeding Mommy today?" I very rarely let him ask me "What are you up to today?" It's very strenuous.
Reader, you may think I am selfish, not wanting to lunch with my mother daily. It's not that I don't enjoy it, not one bit. I like being able to be with her, love her, and make her laugh. Making her laugh is usually the best part of my day.
It's the fact that I live thirty minutes away, am trying to get things done this summer that I can't normally do (i.e. write my screenplays, audition for things, generally not be depressed), and make sure I take care of my self. The biggest factor is my brother.
My brother, friend, was temporarily living with us back in 2008, after a bad breakup with some crazy girl that he mooched off of, like he has done with all the girls. My brother, at one time full of passion and zeal for making art, has turned into a child-like man, hiding in his room, acting defensive, claiming he is oppressed and is being bullied by my father, who is his step-dad. They both bully each other, quite frankly, and I have had enough.
Mom is ill. I don't know if I've posted the story of how she came to be like she is, but the brief is she had a series of seizures/strokes, and a gigantic seizure three years ago that has left her with her faculties damaged. I am doing all I can in my power to make her proud; finishing college, working full time, being a good wife, being a good artist. Everyone else treats her as though she is barely human, adorable in her inability to function, and a pity party.
Brother claims he is watching her everyday, that is why he can't get a job. It's not due to his arrest a few years ago, surely, or his alcoholism or narcissism. Oh, no, it's not that at all. He's a martyr, saint, divine.
This is what gets me, my dearest friend, the fact that he is living in their home, rent free, alcohol drunk and precious mementos sold to strangers who come to our house, giving my brother cigarettes. The one who judges me for my being fat my whole life, yet has lost the battle to slovenliness. Who am I kidding? He has never fought a day in his life.
He has never appreciated her struggle and determination. I'm beginning to think nobody has in a long time.
I am not trying to make myself appear as a saint or martyr because I am not. I don't go visit her everyday, or bathe her, or take her out walking. I do it when I am mentally able to do it, because as soon as I leave, I must mourn my mother's loss yet again. The conversations I have with my father often lead to me chatting with her on the phone, and sometimes this is enough. Sometimes it makes her angry.
So, I'm sorry, but I won't be cleaning out the rest of my stuff for another week, and I won't be helping you clean out Brother's room, or the attic. Not yet. I'm tired of you relying on solely me to do all this, even when you yourself are sick. But that is an entry for another time, another state of mind. My heart is not yet prepared for more conversations on that.
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