8 November, 2006, 137 am
Filed under: Barrels of Fun

My grandfather got married on July 21 to a Peruvian woman who had been living with him (this is not as horrible as it sounds).  He didn’t tell his children until this weekend (he likely didn’t know how to communicate this to them).  Wow.  Kinda blows you away, doesn’t it?  They’re both Catholic, and they’d been dating secretly for a while, but this isn’t as demented as I’m making it sound because in reality, they’re both very conservative and reserved people.  I have a step-grandmother.  And one step-uncle who is my age and lives in Peru.  What the fuck?

Regarding other pressing family issues, this Sunday on the phone, Josh had a sort of revelation about how life is memory.  Even when we say things at random, we’ve already pre-proposed in our minds.  Our reactions are based on past events.  Our preferences are based on events and childhood, as well.  We may even pre-suppose things about people based on names and people we’ve known with those names.  We cry and hurt and laugh because of things that have already happened.

I mentioned that part about how maybe that’s why we can’t move on from things, even four months later, and how somehow you’re still bitter and crying inside despite the fact that things have returned to status quo antebellum, except for the occasional outburst that results in you being called a juvenile delinquent.

It’s crazy; I’d moved on, and then I told him everything that had happened in July (or was it August?).  I even went so far as to tell him how I couldn’t sleep or think or eat that night, because it would make me cry or throw up.  And I thought someone would murder me in my sleep.  I wanted to die, and I wanted to go home.  I didn’t mention that I told my mother several times afterward that I wanted to be put into a foster home right now, that I never wanted to see her again.  I did tell him how I knew not to rationalize with drunk people, or fight them.  I told him about hyperventilating and trying to get away but being locked in place by fear, my sister sitting right beside me in a panic about my short, deep breaths while the adults watched and laughed like drunk fucks, and how I’d gotten advice from Erika.  And then how I watched VH1 until the early hours, got no sleep, and in the morning my mother asked me not to talk to her; she didn’t want to look at me, and then I cried and couldn’t stop.  Nobody realized they were drunk; the neighbor had called me a bitch, among other things.  A group of ten adults against three little girls.  I was a little girl.  I wished Sean and Nick had been there.  I was a pariah.

nostalgia to keep you reading (we have all of them)

All through this, I was trying not to cry, rolling my eyes to the heavens while relaying this via telephone.  I was happy that he didn’t sympathize and act like I’d been raped or something awful like that.  He didn’t apologize, which was also good.  I swear to God, if one of you dumbfucks apologizes for my misfortune or tries to comfort me in any way, I will never write on this blog about my personal life ever again.  It was emotional rape, and it was scarring.  He responded with a similar experience, only in that one, his brother hadn’t pushed him out of the way like I had with Alexa, and instead, his elbow was broken and he was left scared.  He changed the subject swiftly and well, though.

I didn’t know it still hurt me so badly, though, like it was yesterday and I didn’t realize talking about it more would help.  At that point, only two people knew: my father and Erika.  None of the adults seemed to realize that I was a child, either, which was scary.  If I’d not been, I would have screamed at them all and gotten Rachael and Alexa in the car and driven to the hotel for my mother to rot in that fucking patio next door with all those drunk bastards.  And then maybe the next morning, I would have driven us three home to Virginia and left my mother in Lewisburg to fend for herself.  That’s what she wanted anyway.  To trap us there.  She’d already stayed extra days and she was being selfish.  She always is when we go there.

After my surprise party, which was less than a month later, she asked, “Do you still want to go to a foster home after all this?”  She was half-joking in a sentimental way.  Sentimental about all that mental abuse?  It was as though someone else had shattered my glass menagerie and she was trying to be the good guy by compensating, when in reality she was the one who had very pointedly dropped every animal on the floor right before my very eyes and ground them up with her Isaac Mizrahi shoes.  She’d never apologized because she was so sure (much like me) that she was right, and because she was the adult and thus, she owed nobody an apology.  I told her, “Yes.”  I couldn’t forgive her for some indirect apology for someone else that wasn’t even sincere.  She’d crushed everything I’d looked up to her and adults in general for.  Was I supposed to forgive her for that?

Eventually she apologized for the neighbour’s actions, I think, for calling me a bitch and for calling us three spoiled brats for being scared shitless.  I don’t think she ever apologized directly.  She never will, either.  I’ll be bitter forever.

Man, I have a headache now.  Shiiiit.


2 Comments so far
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Well as long and interesting as this entry sounds (judging by the first paragraph), I’m not going to read it (at the moment). I am just letting you know that I have a wordpress. Freak out.

Comment by peasplease

are you gonna get to go to peru anytime?

Comment by divya

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