Take Another Look

{September 24, 2009}   Revulsion

The phone rings. First it is my mom. You know how most parents, they try to protect you from the world? Well my mom tries to protect my dad from the possible damage my sister and me might inflict. “That’s daddy’s chair, don’t you dare sit there.”

“Get the fuck out of the way,” she’d say when I was only three. “Daddy might trip.”

“You piece of shit,” she’s swear when I was four.

I went through this phase where I had seizures where I thought I saw the devil eating me, killing me, torturing me. Later it was nightmares and I always got kidnapped, and I often wet the bed, and at eight I often was so filled with confusion and embarrassed I would try to knock my fists and my head against the wall so that I made enough noise to scare the darkness away.

I’d look at my dad with a hurt expression on my face, but he couldn’t see. So I was like stone. Always. My mom just liked to taunt and hurt me with my feelings, so I had to turn them against everything around me. The only thing I had going for me was the piano. And even then.

“Do you have to pound it so angrily? What is wrong with you, Nicole, why are you so angry? There are rules you know,” they would gang up on me when I was 16.

And now. They call me relentlessly, even though I’m supposed to be an adult.

First my mom calls. She who almost never calls, since she doesn’t give a damn. The only topic she ever calls about is my father. “Dad is stressed out and it is all your fault. You need to straighten this thing out with your insurance agency, I received this thing in the mail about it, and it says that they denied it, you need to find out why they denied it, and don’t ask dad about it because he does too much.”

I thought I’d already resolved that issue earlier in the morning, but apparently not. She is the voice of reason, and I am logically impaired. When I am done wrestling with her, my dad calls.

“You don’t have your priorities straight,” my dad says in a high, wheedling voice, like he is begging. His sappy neediness makes me want to vomit.

“You said you’d do this, and I don’t think it’s straightened out yet. You said you’d do this, and yet I don’t think you did it. You said you’d return your library books yesterday, but it’s today. Where are you right now?”

He is relentless. He won’t stop. But he likes it if I tell him whatever he wants to hear.
Maybe that’s why he and my mom married.

“What is it? I can try and help you. Anger? Depression? What is it?”

I just want to get off the phone, as usual. Anytime I tell my parents anything they use it as a weapon against me. It’s been this way for so long I can’t count. So it got to the point where I made my friends my family. Only they sort of spread out, like birds in a flock going different directions. I said it was a guy that burnt a hole through my heart, but really I think it was watching all my beautiful friends spread their wings while I sat and kicked at the ground.

They are two children begging me to pretend I have everything together. That I am fine, all the time, like I tell them, because to have any other feeling other than “fine” would be an injustice. It might be unfair to them. They want to remain as insulated from the corruptions of the world. I might taint them with my experiences. They want to know as little about what I’m really passionate about as possible. It might scar them.

They always have made me feel only one thing. The desire to get away. I don’t always know what to do with this feeling, I just know it creates all sorts of conflicts inside. And that these conflicts manifest in all sorts of ways around me until I feel like I am a danger to anybody around me, and that to be loved, I must sacrifice everything, because I had to sacrifice who I was to get them to love me. Why would it be different anywhere else?


et cetera