I stare at a plate of greasy, cold pizza. A cup of soda that has lost its fizz. And as I sit on the floor of my room, tears welling in my eyes, I wonder how everything came to this point. I’m 29 years old, living with my parents, and barely making ends meet with two jobs, one of which I’m sure is only temporary. How did I get here? How did I wind up sitting on a floor next to cold pizza? Where did my dreams go? Where is my purpose? No, not ‘what is my purpose,’ but where? I left it somewhere and I feel I have been, for the longest time, just marching in a line until I come to my death. I had passion for life, once. I wasn’t mad or sad every single day, but that feels like it was years ago. Everything feels like it was years ago.
I got mad at my mother for saying I was acting like a mother – hah. How ironic. I gave her a heavy dose of my opinion, informing her that all day today, December 18, she had been marching around the house like a queen barking orders at her servants, my father and I. And that’s her nickname, you know – Queenie. All day, she’s been up my ass about things that she could be doing herself. Instead, she chooses to march from her computer on the main floor to her smoking room upstairs and back all. Day. Long. She told my dad that she wanted pizza for dinner. My dad walked in -30 degree weather to the grocery store to get supplies for pizza. Because she wanted pizza. She wanted me to do the dishes this morning after breakfast, and instead of letting me do the dishes, she kept trying to tell me HOW to do the dishes. Then she kept asking me about weed. Yep, my mom smokes weed, and I have a hook up. And she kept asking me if my friend had gotten back to me about weed. I told her no. She kept asking. I put this ‘relationship’ between me and my dealer on the line more than once because he’s not fast enough for my mother. She’s been barking orders all fucking day while she just marches from her computer to play slot games to her smoking room upstairs to smoke cigarettes. She lost her job about a month ago and that’s all she’s been doing since then is marching the same FUCKING path from her computer to her fucking smoking room.
I blew my top at dinner. I said whatever she asks for, she gets, but when it comes to Dad or I asking for something, it seems we get the stink eye for how/why we want what we want. Everything has to be her way. It’s beyond irritating.
I’m absolutely positive this whole thought process has something to do with not being able to leave the house all weekend due to the extreme cold and snow. Cabin fever, perhaps, but I think it’s more or less that I’m sick of my roommates and my roommates just happen to be my parents. How the fuck do I deal with that? There’s no book on how to be roommates with your parents. And I certainly don’t want to be roommates with my parents, but it just so happens to be cheaper to be staying here than anywhere else. I miss my independence greatly.
When I lived by myself, I didn’t have to put pants on. Shit. I didn’t have to put clothes on at all if I didn’t want to. I could eat what I wanted, when I wanted without anyone getting mad at me for eating something in particular without asking first. I miss that. I’ve never seen a man more possessive of peanut brittle than my father. I have to keep everything neat and tidy and my little ducks in a row because if they aren’t, Queenie is the first to tell me.
“Are you going to fold that blanket back up or are you planning to use it later?”
“Would you rather I leave these dishes for you later, or should I get a start on them now for you?”
“Have you heard anything from Satchmo (real name of dealer’s name witheld) or should I get a hold of my guy?”
It’s wearing thin. My patience. Or my sanity. Either one.
I have been roommates with my parents since October 31. My favorite holiday, which I missed because I had to move out of my other house because it was sold to someone else by my landlady. Yep. I got fucked in the anus in that whole situation. And I miss it terribly. The apartment. My own schedule. The fact that I didn’t have to see other people’s faces if I didn’t want to on any given day. Now I have to. I have to see other people’s faces whether I like it or not. I have to wear pants whether I like it or not. And yes, I am very upset with the pants thing because I hate pants. Pants are lame. I can’t buy the groceries that I want because they won’t fit in the fucking fridge because my dad believes that buying when things are “on sale” saves money. Currently, we have about 25 lbs of pork stacked in our fridge and all I want is some room for some greek yogurt and some grilled chicken and some bagels. Can’t happen on pork sale week, I guess. And laundry! Hah! I keep my dirty laundry in my own room, out of everyone’s way, and Queenie still likes to ask about it. I do my laundry every weekend, when I’m not working my two jobs? Yeah. It’s annoying.
And here’s the thing. Queenie says she’s retired. She’s not. She got fired from her job. Why did Queenie get fired from her job? In my honest opinion, it’s because she is addicted to opioids that were given to her when she had cancer over five years ago. She says there is pain still involved from the radiation therapy she received. I can’t say she’s not experiencing pain, but when that need to squelch that pain overcomes the need to do your work in a timely manner, I’d say its an addiction that needs some attention, but what the fuck do I know, right?
I’m just a girl sitting next to cold pizza.
Tonight, I just cannot fathom living here. How the fuck did I get to this point? I feel like a gigantic failure of epic proportions. I feel like I have no say in ANYTHING that I do. At work, at home…nowhere. My voice is minimized to the keyboard in front of me and the blog that nobody reads. It’s just me screaming into the open abyss that is the internet about my mother, the roommate from hell.
I’m really second guessing buying her a $100 cashmere sweater for Christmas.
Tomorrow, I won’t be as mad. I’m sure once I’m done typing this, I’ll try something to make some sort of amends so we can continue using shared spaces without awkward silence and hostilities. But right now? I’m fucking mad. I’m mad that I’m stuck in this place. I’m mad that I don’t have any room to be myself or express myself except for a blog. I feel very alone. I feel hurt. I feel….minimal. I don’t like it.