December 19, 2004
not now
I think I'm depressed again.
With Mom, I'm currently stuck somewhere between Closet and Out. She's suspected lately that I'm not telling her the whole truth, what with my start page being none of her business. And I have to walk this fine line between reassuring her away from imminent nervous breakdown and not out-and-out lying to her.
Trouble is the questioning got fairly blunt and, well, I lied.
"Do you still think you're gay?"
Well, do you always have to ask me these things right after you wake me up at nine in the morning when I can barely remember my own name, much less think of a reply that's going to satisfy you? And do you always have to tell me how you never "got over" what happened the summer before I left for school, as if I had died and you were still mourning? Do you have to ask me questions that you don't really want the truth to? Because believing it's true would mean the death of your worldview, your successful Happy Family and everything you've made your life to be about.
That's the crux of it, after all. If I am really, truly gay, then she has failed as a mother because gay kids don't happen to moms that have done their jobs right. She was supposed to raise me to be a nice, polite lady who would marry a nice man and have nice children like her. If I've gone wrong, and in such a sick, sexual way, it's her fault somewhere down the line. And being a mother isn't just her job, it's her definition as a human being. If she is a bad mother, she is a failure as a human being.
What kind of child would I have to be to tell her that?
"..."
When you can tell that every second I pause wracking my brain for an answer that won't send her into forty days and forty nights of tears is deepening her suspicion that she's right and I am, and I'm just not telling her.
I mean, you've got to give her that much, her mother's intuition in this regard is pretty good. I really am still gay.
Not only that, but I'm very involved with a boy with no plans to quit soon and I still think I'm gay, and how the FUCK am I supposed to explain THAT?!
"... Not right now."
"What does that mean?"
"...It means I don't know right now. But I don't think so."
Okay, maybe the first part could have worked out subliminally, could be a bit of admitting to some fluid tendencies on my part, but... well, I do think so, and that right there was a lie.
I hate lying. I can't stand it. Everything I've ever wanted to be was about being truthful and honest with and about myself and the world at large. And to be put in a position where I have to lie in order to save my mother's fragile psyche? Especially when I know that at best, it's a stopgap measure.
So I notice myself muttering under my breath a litany "I can't do anything right. I'm such a dumbass. Why do I even bother. I hate myself" when I put two shots in something instead of one, or drop something at work. And subconsciously (or consciously) hoping that someone will run a red light and hit me in an intersection, or some other passive suicide. I'm losing weight because I'm never hungry anymore. I wish I hadn't left the samples of Lexapro at school, because at least when I was on meds I felt numb instead of suicidal. I find myself antagonizing Hans on the phone so at least maybe he'll ask what's wrong.
I'm not sure I'd be so able to explain. It's... everything, but it's nothing, and I should be able to deal with it. It's only my own fault that I want to curl into a ball in the corner and cry at work when the lines get too long and Heike puts me on hot drinks instead of the blenders because I'm being too slow. The fact is that I do get through it, maybe not with the most consummate grace but I manage to make it home, or to what passes for a home around here.
Thing is also that my recent baby steps towards financial independence-- getting a job, opening a savings account and putting my wages in it instead of just using it to buy more books and music-- are unnerving my mom as well. Babies need their mama. And my mom is fond of referring to her offspring as her "babies" regardless of age. The most revealing soundbite is "no matter how old you are, you'll always be my baby."
No, I won't. I won't stop being your daughter, but I haven't been a child for a long time. I am twenty fucking years old. I want to move out and support myself, so I got a job and started saving up. Those are not the acts of a helpless infant, so stop trying to make me act like one.
My dad positively RHAPSODIZES about the day when we'll all be Off The Payroll (or "O.T.P.," as he abbreviates it). One could only wish he'd rub off on sMother.
With Mom, I'm currently stuck somewhere between Closet and Out. She's suspected lately that I'm not telling her the whole truth, what with my start page being none of her business. And I have to walk this fine line between reassuring her away from imminent nervous breakdown and not out-and-out lying to her.
Trouble is the questioning got fairly blunt and, well, I lied.
"Do you still think you're gay?"
Well, do you always have to ask me these things right after you wake me up at nine in the morning when I can barely remember my own name, much less think of a reply that's going to satisfy you? And do you always have to tell me how you never "got over" what happened the summer before I left for school, as if I had died and you were still mourning? Do you have to ask me questions that you don't really want the truth to? Because believing it's true would mean the death of your worldview, your successful Happy Family and everything you've made your life to be about.
That's the crux of it, after all. If I am really, truly gay, then she has failed as a mother because gay kids don't happen to moms that have done their jobs right. She was supposed to raise me to be a nice, polite lady who would marry a nice man and have nice children like her. If I've gone wrong, and in such a sick, sexual way, it's her fault somewhere down the line. And being a mother isn't just her job, it's her definition as a human being. If she is a bad mother, she is a failure as a human being.
What kind of child would I have to be to tell her that?
"..."
When you can tell that every second I pause wracking my brain for an answer that won't send her into forty days and forty nights of tears is deepening her suspicion that she's right and I am, and I'm just not telling her.
I mean, you've got to give her that much, her mother's intuition in this regard is pretty good. I really am still gay.
Not only that, but I'm very involved with a boy with no plans to quit soon and I still think I'm gay, and how the FUCK am I supposed to explain THAT?!
"... Not right now."
"What does that mean?"
"...It means I don't know right now. But I don't think so."
Okay, maybe the first part could have worked out subliminally, could be a bit of admitting to some fluid tendencies on my part, but... well, I do think so, and that right there was a lie.
I hate lying. I can't stand it. Everything I've ever wanted to be was about being truthful and honest with and about myself and the world at large. And to be put in a position where I have to lie in order to save my mother's fragile psyche? Especially when I know that at best, it's a stopgap measure.
So I notice myself muttering under my breath a litany "I can't do anything right. I'm such a dumbass. Why do I even bother. I hate myself" when I put two shots in something instead of one, or drop something at work. And subconsciously (or consciously) hoping that someone will run a red light and hit me in an intersection, or some other passive suicide. I'm losing weight because I'm never hungry anymore. I wish I hadn't left the samples of Lexapro at school, because at least when I was on meds I felt numb instead of suicidal. I find myself antagonizing Hans on the phone so at least maybe he'll ask what's wrong.
I'm not sure I'd be so able to explain. It's... everything, but it's nothing, and I should be able to deal with it. It's only my own fault that I want to curl into a ball in the corner and cry at work when the lines get too long and Heike puts me on hot drinks instead of the blenders because I'm being too slow. The fact is that I do get through it, maybe not with the most consummate grace but I manage to make it home, or to what passes for a home around here.
Thing is also that my recent baby steps towards financial independence-- getting a job, opening a savings account and putting my wages in it instead of just using it to buy more books and music-- are unnerving my mom as well. Babies need their mama. And my mom is fond of referring to her offspring as her "babies" regardless of age. The most revealing soundbite is "no matter how old you are, you'll always be my baby."
No, I won't. I won't stop being your daughter, but I haven't been a child for a long time. I am twenty fucking years old. I want to move out and support myself, so I got a job and started saving up. Those are not the acts of a helpless infant, so stop trying to make me act like one.
My dad positively RHAPSODIZES about the day when we'll all be Off The Payroll (or "O.T.P.," as he abbreviates it). One could only wish he'd rub off on sMother.
Labels: depression, family, Teh Gay
# posted by Liadan @ 12:25 AM 
