Family is just another word for hell

I did fuck all over the weekend. And I am still exhausted, in spite of my kid staying at my dad’s last night. I feel emotionally and physically embalmed. It’s the start of the seasonal, I can feel it in my gut, even if everyone and their dog wants to call me a pessimist with a self fulfilling prophecy. You go through something often enough, you begin to notice the little telltale signs. But at least it was an uneventful fairly calm weekend, even if I did spend a lot of it snapping the rubber band on my wrist to deter my mind from going off on obsessive negative tangents. (It sounds crazy but the rubber band snapping thing actually does rewire your brain to an extent, even if it doesn’t stick, it can distract you enough to get over the bumpy parts.)

Today is Labor Day. Joy,joy. My family is having a cook out. I hate family functions. Vehemently. There is always inevitably some sort of personal attack, interrogation, or insulting. Usually aimed at me by one or more of my parents. Even when there’s nothing explosive, there are the usual shots and barbs taken at me for where I live, not having money, my subpar parenting, et al. It’s just a big bummer on a precarious mood state and I dread it with every fiber of my being. It’s not like I even care because nothing they say changes anything about my behavior or thoughts or beliefs. It’s just the fact that they can never shut up and just keep their thoughts to themselves. Think I’m a loser, but do it silently.
My anxiety is shooting through the roof, my stomach is in knots. Which is bizarre because when we go to R and Sandi’s I don’t feel any particular dread or nerves. Probably because no one there is out to critique me to within an inch of my life.
Family is another word for hell, in my case.
I have always been amazed by these families who actually enjoy each other’s company and get along so well.
I almost envy them, if only because their self confidence isn’t being chipped away at.

On the plus side, without my kid here last night, I rebooted my story and wrote 9 pages and I didn’t proof it this morning and think, this is shit. It’s actually fairly lucent and without rambling or even many typos. Amazing what the ability to focus can accomplish.

I have the feeling I will be snapping the rubber band on my wrist a lot today. I want to be the bigger person and not let my family get to me. But my compulsion to defend myself against their attacks is second nature. If you let it go, it just encourages them because like sharks, they smell blood of weakness in the water. You’d think I was being hypersensitive or exaggerating. If only…So many have thought that then met my family. They were immediately apologetic for not taking my word for it.

Example. I asked my dad if they could spring for some eggs, milk, and loaf of bread until I get my check Wednesday. Stepmonster had no problem with it. Dad, on the other hand, launched in a ten minute lecture on how he’d have to think about it because money’s tight there and blah blah blah. We’re talking six bucks here.
YET my sister, who works and lives with two other people with full incomes, wants to have a cookout but can’t afford the food. So Dad goes out and spends about sixty bucks so she can have a cookout.
REALLY?
I am not the golden child. Hell, half the time, I get the feeling I’m merely tolerated rather than included in my family. Which is a bit reciprocal because, face it, even the most secure confident person would not be gung ho to be surrounded by people who insult them. Let alone someone whose moods shift every six seconds and deteriorate the mental state and confidence. They are toxic to my mental health and even counselors have said as much.
But family is family and nothing will change it. I can take one for the team. No matter how many times I tell myself it will be okay, I can handle it…I will spend the next few days dissecting every word said to me, every tone, every snarky comment. It will make me angry, it will hurt my feelings, it will make me want to tie them to a train track and watch as a locomotive makes them go splat.
Yeah, I’m terrible. I can live with that.

It’s only logical to harbor ill will towards those whose lifelong existence has been to ensure you have no self confidence.
I never gave them permission to make me feel inferior, but damn it, they have magical powers of destruction.

I just hope I don’t have any abrupt mood crashes. That turns me into a livewire and I tend to pop off without regard to the shitstorm it could create.
I really hate my fucked up mind and my mental damage and emotional baggage.
At the same time…it’s what makes me who I am.

And whether I like that or not hinges on the next mood swing, which should occur in the next five seconds.
Viva la cyclothymia.

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