Kalamity K

The Daily Chaos of Kalamity K
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2005-03-09 05:47:19 (UTC)

And With One Abrupt Comment, So Ends Dinner...

Hey there, Lasgair,

How goes the battle? I forgot I used to call you
Lasgair. Welcome back, my old friend.

Really very tired right now and frustrated with many
things. It's not that they aren't worth mentioning - it's
just that I'm really trying not to spend seven hours a day
writing out the contents of my thoughts because I know
from experience that it drives me crazy. The only problem
is that it drives me more crazy not to do it.

Work sucked today. Again, it's not that the details are
unimportant, it's just that there are so many of them and
so many of them are the same. I screw around because I
don't have the motivation to do anything other than the
bare minimum because they are hardly paying me, because
I'm bored, because I'm lazy, because, because, because.
Wheezie wants everything done yesterday (which is okay
except that her stuff is never urgent and when it is she
sits beside me and watches me do it). Another of my
bosses (I can't come up with a good name for her, perhaps
I will call her GS, short for Ghost Ship, she just sort of
is there, but I don't see much personality in her, likely
just that we aren't friends...) told me she wanted
something done by Thursday and was lecturing me today it
was a priority. (She is right to make sure I understand
but I was not happy b/c everything was going wrong.)
Wheezie yesterday said she wanted some bullshit typing she
gave me last week done this week. Today she says, "I
guess my forms aren't forth coming?" I looked at my
desk. No less than 15 reports sitting there to be filed
with the courts, plus all the other bullshit. I said
something incoherent, it was just noises, not even words,
had done the same to GS, too, and Wheezie says, "For the
form for my files. But the other is just a five minute
editing job." I felt like shoving it into her cone-shaped-
delivered-to-work chest and telling her to do it herself
then...except that she doesn't know how to type or do
anything remotely self-sufficient. Then one of Wheezie's
agents shows up - one I really don't like - and without so
much as a Hi, how are you, are you busy, starts ordering
me around to do things for her. She thinks I'm her
personal secretary b/c she works for my supervisor. I
could barely look at her. I couldn't even get my words
out to the people I work for; I definitely wasn't going to
waste my energy on this one. I know she noticed. I was,
for me, being incredibly rude, but I really thought I was
going to break down crying right then and there and so it
was all I could do to just keep steady like that, let
alone talk. She expected me to send out her report
tomorrow. I finally looked up and said, I have fifteen
others to do first. It'll go out ... likely the day
after. I felt like saying, WHENEVER THE FUCK IT GOES OUT,
but I bit my tongue. There was a room re-opening at 1430
today, and when everyone went to look at that, that's when
I finally let the tears come. Only for a few minutes, not
even five, a few seconds and then a few minutes
recomposing myself (I wish I was recomposing myself
because the draft I'm on now isn't working...[-weak smile-
])...it wasn't even five minutes, though, because MFS and
my friend the Russian beauty (MFTRB) came back. MFTRB
asked me if I was okay. I lied, said yes, everyone knew I
wasn't. I'm too tired, I'm too over-wrought about things,
I'm too on the edge, I'm too jittery, I'm too a lot of
things to be able to keep my already simmering emotions
under wraps. As the days go on it gets harder and harder
to even pretend to pretend I care. I forgot I had to do
reception today and that turned into a hullabaloo with
seven people more than necessary involved and yada yada
yada. I just hate it. YWSBN swears it's not my destiny.
My boyfriend tells me to be patient, something will come.
My question always is, WHEN? HAVEN'T I WAITED LONG
ENOUGH? I know you have to be good to be lucky. I know
you have to be proactive to affect change. But I feel
like I'm watching my life unroll from a vantage point that
I can do nothing from save to say, That's not how it was
supposed to be, what are you doing, K2??? And I can see
it coming closer, we're 1 out in the bottom of the ninth
on this attempt to resuscitate my never-having-existed
legal career and I'm worried that if and when those next
two strikes come that that's going to be it and I'm going
to call the legal dreams of mine game over before they
even started...It's all really very fucking depressing and
not something I want to get into a new rehash over right

I rushed home and got in the door not even five minutes
before my boyfriend. We got our shit together, stopped at
the mall on the way to my parents' place and got to their
place ten minutes after we were expected. For me, that
was a major accomplishment. We were supposed to have
dinner with my cousin. There is no car in the driveway.
This is a bad sign. We go in. Before we go in, I said to
my boyfriend, if my mother makes one comment about my
socks or shoes, I'm going to scream. I couldn't find any
clean socks. I knew this would be a problem. We got in
and I took my shoes (and socks!) off and went to see my
parents. My cousin isn't there, he won't be there until
2030. I wasn't very polite. I made a face in
irritation. This always happens. And I already had a bad
feeling about tonight...that's two hours away. So we are
sitting there with my mother prattling on about the
temperatures in Nassau, Bahamas (within 2 seconds I was
tired of this), as she surfs on her nicely new wireless
internet (grrr) and my father is being a smartass and
making comments about how he doesn't want to go if it's
going to rain. A couple of minutes go by and then my
mother absolutely exclaims - as if it was a disaster about
to unfold unless she made a great big GRAND pronouncement -
"K2! Are you wearing clean socks?" OH my god. I about
had a fit. I mean a serious fit. I didn't answer for a
minute. I was exhausted. I didn't want to be there. I
wasn't in the mood for bullshit. I was leaning against my
bf and he has his arm around me and he knew, too, that I
was going to lose it. "No, Mom, in fact, I'm not even
wearing socks." She gets all dramatic. "Well, is it your
feet? I can smell them over here!" OH MY GOD I ABOUT GOT
UP AND LEFT. Let me just say - not that I need to really
explain this - holy crap, Mom, are you on drugs? She
lives in a house where my father airs out his hockey gear
in the basement every time, formerly with a daughter who
has played sports like an addict, coming home caked in
mud, sweat, blood, tears, leaves, twigs, sand, etc., etc.,
etc. My father comes in the house dripping with sweat
from his workouts, etc. And she is acting like I've shot
her b/c my socks were an entire day old. Oh my god.
SHOOT me NOW! I wanted to sink through the floor. I was
like, I can't believe I'm hearing this. I almost snapped
at her that if I could afford to do my damn laundry more
than once a week and could afford new running shoes that I
haven't worn a million times through every season, to the
gym, etc., etc., etc., that I'd be happy to wear a brand
new freaking pair of socks to her house every day but I
just kept my mouth shut. I should also say, to redeem
myself (since now you all think I'm like Pigpen or
something...[-sigh-]) it's not like we were sitting in the
manor and she was seven hundred feet away from me. We're
talking like, a couple of metres. Maybe three if you push
it. Yes. My socks were dirty. Fine. Whatever. Get
over it. Shit. I have a cousin who won't let you in her
house without proving your socks are clean b/c they are
allergic to dust. Like, who has dusty socks? I felt like
asking her if she wanted to supply me with new socks so
she could join the ranks of the cousin she so
despises...but I kept my mouth shut. I wouldn't even have
cared but she acted like the sky was falling. My god.
Said in jest, I would have laughed it off but no. Way to
go, both of us...me for being so stupid and she for
pushing my buttons - and she knows she does it, but she
doesn't care b/c she is off in her own little world - more
on that later. She gets up and leaves and my boyfriend
leans over and says, "Do you think it's my socks? I mean,
you aren't wearing socks and your feet don't smell. I
mean, I don't smell anything." Whatever. Please don't
think I'm dirty! I can't believe I even wrote this in
here...this is one of those highly embarrassing things
that are just so weird, too, b/c if you knew my mother
you'd understand...she is a drama queen though you
wouldn't know it on the surface...

So that was that. My father was screwing with my head,
telling me we had to wait for dinner until 2030, but
really it was almost ready. So we go and have dinner. We
ate at the dining room table so I had to be careful
because my mother sits to my left and that's the arm with
all the scars and I go to great pains to make sure my
sleeves are down so she won't see. Dinner goes along
alright, if stilted, until the conversation of jobs comes
up. I know I'm a terror to talk to b/c I put so much off
limits, but people come on. If your daughter has begged,
cried, screamed, requested, repeated ir/rationally to
please stay away from a topic it would behoove you to
adhere to this. My father started it and said something
that he thought was encouraging that I just sort of had to
play down and it went down hill from there. There was an
articling job where one requirement was great computer
skills. Yeah, I have those, but it is hard to make them
see that anyone born around the end of the 1970s and early
1980s inherently has good computer skills, if not great,
and that half the time that qualification actually
means, "you can type more than 10 words a minute". I feel
bad about having to down play these things, but I can't
stand people getting their hopes up - my hopes up - and
then having to say for the four hundredth time, no I
didn't get the job. My boyfriend actually backed me up on
this on...more on THIS type of story later...and my dad
said, but you've had jobs where you are proven to have
these great skills. I had to just agree because well,
he's right, but so am I. So whatever.

Then my mother...starts in...The government has a job, on
their web site... I couldn't even look at her. I was
going to cry, so I just started smiling. She caught me
smiling and hesitated then kept going. "It's to be an
advisor..." I started laughing. What's wrong, she
wonders. My boyfriend is also guffawing b/c I'm losing
it. "Nothing," I said. "I'm just waiting to hear that I
need a degree in political science or something.
Continue. Sorry." (My mother has a penchant for finding
jobs I would be GREAT at and then when I read the not-so-
small print, it says, "must be qualified professional
engineer" or some other comparable nonsense that could
never apply to me...I have spoken to her about this before
and usually we get through it with a joke, now, sort
of...) "No," she says, "It seemed okay. It's to be an
advisor for people with mental illnesses..."

I lost it. I just started shaking and laughing. Not
violently, but enough to really fucking piss her right
off. I tried to say to please continue but she looked at
me, got pissed, stood up and said, as she put something
away in the buffet, "I don't know, you figure it out
then." The air just went right out of my sails...and I
sat there, a hand on my face, staring at the table. I was
ever so thankful to my father who decided it was wisest to
sit there, watch and say nothing. Thanks, Dad, for
jumping right in there to save the day. Thanks, a bunch,
really, yeah.

I didn't kwow what to say. Like I said, I wasn't rolling
on the floor laughing but I was laughing. In
frustration. Better than crying. What was I going to
say? Yeah, Mom, that would be great. Is it because I'm
mentally ill myself that you want me to apply for this?
Should I just put on the cover letter, Understand people
with mental illness because I'm a fucking depressed as
hell headcase who borders on personality dissociation and
has problems with reality and delusions of grandeur?
Because I cut my arms and my legs, too, on occasion, and
therefore understand mental and physical anguish and where
they collide? Because I grew up a perfectionist because
of the number certain people did on my head which dogs me
to this day, allowing me to entertain the thoughts that
tell me I'm not good enough and that I never will be good
enough? Not only entertain, but invite them to stay
indefinitely? Because I understand emotional abuse?
Because I've been there? Because I still am? Because I
do it? Because I understand verbal abuse? Because I've
been there? Because I still am? I mean, honest to god,
her delivery was also very untactful. And my groundrules
for talking to me for years have been NOTHING ABOUT THE
ABOUT WITH THE DOCTOR, NOTHING. It was just so absurd I
had to laugh. And then she got hurt. And pissed off.
And I got up to leave. My father finally saying, If you
guys want to go... Yup, got kicked out (in not so many
words) of my parents' place tonight. They wouldn't see it
as being kicked out but it was the implication I got. The
only reason I didn't leave immediately was because I had
to show my mother how to do a computer thing. Whatever.
Fucking rushed out of there like a bat out of hell.
Didn't even give anyone a kiss goodbye.

The other thing that was lovely...my father made his
famous pasta. The one that's always better on the second
day according to him. I hadn't eaten all day. Was
hungry. It was good. Had more when I was done. As I got
up and was in the kitchen, my father says, "Didn't you
give K2 any?" His stupid fucking joke b/c I ate it so
fast. Yeah, I know it's not a comment on the fact that he
thinks his daughter actually does look like a whale, but
it cuts deep nonetheless. They know the way I look is a
huge issue with me - partially b/c they have helped to
make it a huge issue - but yet comments like this don't
stop. I don't for a minute say it's easy to live with,
talk with, or know me. I do think that stupid bullshit
like this isn't too much to ask to have stopped,
especially when I've asked and yelled it in the past.
Especially when he's the one who's always made the biggest
deal out of my fat problem. Especially because...

I don't want to cry. Fuck that.

As we were leaving in the car, I said to my boyfriend that
I wondered how long it would take for my mother to start
crying. I can't stand this. I know she is trying to
help. I know that they love me. I know they want the
best for me. I know I'm demanding and exacting and a rude
fucking sourpuss bitch. I know the facts.

The emotional realities do not add up to the facts,
though. I know all this about my mother and it makes me
angry. I know that I hurt her and that makes me angry. A
lot of things make me angry and frustrated but at the end
of the day, thee reduction of everything into one simple
answer is this: I END UP DESPISING MYSELF. I end up
feeling terrible I was so disrespectful to my parents, my
mother especially. I end up feeling terrible that I'm not
pretty, smarter, thinner, sportier. The being good at
music doesn't enter the equation because I just don't see
it as being as prized by my father, who someone can't
rearrange his brain to ask me about my volunteering with
the symphony instead of the opera...he always calls it the

I have failed them. So I have failed, period. It doesn't
matter all the accomplishments in my life. It's not soon
enough nor is it good enough. A double major in undergrad
and a law degree aren't good enough. I'm not yet a
lawyer. I never will be. Playing on a varsity soccer
team, a club team that went to nationals and being
probably equally talented in two other sports that I
pursued for a while, isn't good enough. I'm still a fat
fucking whale, always have been, always will be. (No
disrespect meant to the whales. I love whales!) I'm
bilingual - just not biligual enough to make anyone
believe in me and my abilities, except for going to law
school in French, except for studying in France for a
year, except having an undergrad degree in it. But it's
true...my language skills are deteriorating faster than I
can pick them up again. I can write well, but I've never
written anything of note save for the law school essay
that won that prize from the Dept. of Justice, but though
it got me a nice little trophy and moment at the DOJ, who
cares? I could continue. I just...I just can't stand
it. I've failed them because I'm not a good enough
daughter. Not near good enough. My mother wants a
daughter who can be her pal and with whom she can share
girly things and be close and bond and talk to about
everything - including my problems, including my visits to
the doctors, including my cutting, including the e-mail
she found ostensibly about when I was 13; including her
problems, including my father's affair...s...yes affairs,
though if there were two with one person I don't know that
it counts as affairs, plural. Oh my god all this manner
of bullshit that I just can't give her. She wants a
relationship with me like she had with her aunt and like
my cousin in MI has with her mother... and I can't give it
to her. I can't. And I think that part of her hates me
and holds me responsible for it, for the fuck-up in our

It's insidious. She's insidious about it. She loves to
say how when I was younger my father did this and did that
and hurt me this way and that way - but I'll give him one
thing. He never once hid anything. If he was mad, you
knew it, because he didn't talk to you. Sometimes it was
possible to think he was joking when he wasn't, and then
the sinking backhand of reality would knock you upside the
head when you realised that he now wasn't talking to you
and so was therefore mad. But you always knew. Even if
he was joking about why I only got 97 per cent on a test
(what happened to the other three marks) and then got mad
when you said stop it, b/c you were supposed to know he
was just kidding (even if it got old after the 7th year of
hearing it...)... The reasons behind his violent anger and
silent treatment, maybe not so clear - but you knew it was
happening, you knew it could and would happen...you knew.
She likes to talk about the pressure he put on me, the
this and the that and the standards and the yelling and
the silent treatment and the damaging expectations...

And think she had little or no part in it, save for the
martyr guilt complex she has because she didn't stop any
of it.

And while much of that is valid and while it is true that
for a long time and maybe even now I AM angry at her for
not stopping any of it - she is not without fault. But
like I said, it was insidious. It still is. She still
likes to play that she is innocent in all of it. She just
got to me through the emotional side of things, by always
turning everything back on her, in her shaky voice and
desperation to ask me if I was upset with her, on the
times when we did speak heart-to-heart about things. She
hated when I got mad and yelled, would get teary and ask
why I had to do that. So I decided to take her tactic and
talk calmly and rationally and she accuses me of not
caring. Looks at me with teary eyes and a trembling angry
voice, asking me why I hate her so much, what did she ever
do to make me hate her so much? Then later, she's sorry
she didn't stop things when I was younger, she's sorry she
went to counseling and didn't take me, she wishes things
were different, she's sorry she failed me. Well, she's
never quite said that. Then later still, as the years
went and go by, what can she do to help? Why won't I talk
to her? What's the problem? And I don't know how to
explain it, but insidious pressure from her, too, to do
well, to be good, to get it right. I don't know...I don't
know how to explain it. Both of them disapprove of the
way I look and how I conduct my life. I know the first
for a fact. I suspect the second strongly. I can tell
how disappointed my father is that in the end, after a
valiant effort on her part, his daughter just ended up
being a fat fucking slutty-assed, sloth-toed, lazy-toothed
whore. Okay. If you find the adjectives offensive then
hear the message: I disappointed him by not being the
daughter he thought I would be b/c I'm too fat and no
longer sporty enough. I've disappointed my mother because
I'm too independent, stuck in a mediocre relationship, not
girly enough and certainly not close enough to her,
thereby ruining her chance to recreate the relationship
she had with her aunt, which is now lost, because my aunt
has died.

I could go on and on and on. Believe it or not, I haven't
yet even gotten started...

I try so hard with my mom, I swear it. This is perhaps a
topic for another day. I try to find common ground, away
from the topics I have banned, and it's not enough. She's
like a pitbull. She knows what she wants and there's no
stopping her. It's horrible. HORRIBLE. I invited her to
the symphony - she stood me up, ostensibly b/c of the snow
but I'm not sure it wasn't just that she didn't want to
go. My boyfriend thinks that is what it was. Not that
she didn't want to go with me, but that she just didn't
go. I tried last night to get her interested in my
symphony wine festival - she loves wine - and nothing. I
mean, they've said they'll come and everything, but the
interest doesn't seem to run any deeper than that, which
surprises me. My mother loves to hobnob and show things
off and ... maybe I'm not showoffable any more. I haven't
yet done the next good thing to talk about so I am just
relegated to the sidelines...I don't know...

And the last thing before I go...from what has turned out
to be a rather dispassionate passionate rant about
my "horrible" life... [-snorts-]... ever since her aunt
died, my mother's flitted back and forth between two
states of being. In one, she's my mother, normal, with
flaws, but we can get along as two human beings should,
two family members should, a mother and a daughter should,
or at least within normal perametres. And then, she flits
off to the other where the only important things are
having fun, being a socialite and being social and keeping
up with the Joneses...and there's no talking to her.
She'll cut you off in mid-sentence and act like it doesn't
matter, she doesn't care, it didn't happen - maybe she
doesn't even recognise that she did it, etc., etc., etc.
Even if she asks you how the day was, etc., the cut-offs
and topic changes still occur. Leaves one feeling really
rather low about oneself, really.

I don't know. I'm sick of this. I can't think of this
any more. I have to go. I'm so fucking exhausted...

Sorry for the nothing new ramble, my darling Lasgair,
though I know you of all people can handle it, mo croidhe.

Thank you.



"A witty woman is a treasure; a witty beauty is a power."
George Meredith, 1828-1909.

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