This blog often contains uncomfortable subject matter and occasional sexual content. If you don't want to read about it, empower yourself to close the page.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Deer, rain, and room mate drama

I have this new rule where I'm supposed to shut my computer off at 11:00. Ha. Nope, let's blog.

It's been raining like crazy lately. I haven't seen the water levels at the river and ponds and creeks so high in years. I was worried that if it kept up, the river might flood, but it's let up a little these last few days. We'll get one or two nice days here and there. Sunny if we're really lucky, or sometimes cloudy and humid, but no rain... And then it rains for another week straight. It has me listless, lethargic, inactive, just overall bummed. I'm doing okay for the last week or so, but for a couple of weeks before that, I just wanted to sleep all the time.

My dad hit a deer on his motorcycle recently. He was also drunk, so he got a DUI. He's okay - no brain injuries. His face was bruised up something fierce, and he even had a hoofprint on his cheek. His bottom lip is all torn up. His eye was cut but he can still see out of it. He broke his left arm, right wrist, and right hand in several places, and his arms and legs are pretty badly scraped up. His foot got torn up some, too, but not broken. I was at the bar with KO when I found out. My mom and sisters kept calling and texting. I think I wasn't really considering how badly injured he might be, and my sisters kept downplaying it in their texts. I was already intoxicated by the time I heard about it, and even though both KO and JK offered to drive me to the hospital, I didn't feel comfortable seeing my family while drunk. And honestly, I was being selfish. I just wanted to have a good time, and wasn't prepared for such sudden bad news, and I kept drinking. I didn't visit him that night, but did go the next day. I feel bad about that. I feel bad that I only visited him in the hospital twice, and once in the rehab facility. I think he might have actually gone home today.

It's not so much that I refuse to see my dad in the hospital. He's had a traumatic experience. He could have died. I'm not a monster - I'm not going to let old grudges prevent me from visiting someone who could use a daughter's support. I was afraid to make the drive, afraid to get lost, to deal with the anxiety caused by the insane highway traffic. They're maniacs, cutting people off, tailing people, cutting across multiple lanes without signaling - without even looking! Half the time they're on their damn phones. It's terrifying for me. My legs and feet get shaky and then I worry that I won't be able to operate the car properly. The only time I leave this town is to visit my grandparents' house or my hometown. Shortly before my dad's accident, I came clean to JK about having agoraphobia. It's the first time in a very long time that I've talked about it with anyone. For years, I've just convinced myself that I had no real need to travel anywhere, anyway. Then my dad was in the hospital, and suddenly the agoraphobia has been forced back into my consciousness. It's really bothering me. I feel ashamed that I've let it get that bad.

I will say, though, that I've gotten better in other ways. I'm working on the hoarding. It's not like on those shows where they send a team of professionals in and force you to get rid of everything really rapidly. That's an extreme last resort and not realistic for most people. But I have gotten rid of so much. I've donated boxes upon boxes of yarn. Clothes that I will never be skinny enough to wear again - let's face it, I'm just not eighteen anymore. I got rid of lamps and end tables that were not being used, not adding to the aesthetic of my home, just taking up space. It used to feel like a betrayal of some sort - but this object is in good condition! It could still be used! What if I need it?! Even if I haven't touched, looked at, or even thought about an item for years, I still have a hard time relinquishing the option to use it someday.

But the more I force myself to get rid of stuff, the easier it is to see how absurd some of my belongings are, which leads to me getting rid of even more stuff, and it keeps getting easier. Yesterday, I got rid of a little end table with a built-in lamp. It's old and tacky and scratched up, but I've always found it charming. I loved that lamp, but I just didn't need it. JK was shocked that I'd decided to donate it, but it was easy. I just made the decision, loaded it up in the car, and now I'll never own it again. Just like that, no big deal. And that really shows how far I've come.

On top of the purging of material possessions, I've been cleaning, organizing, de-cluttering. Part of that just comes naturally with getting rid of stuff, I think. But mostly it's because EH yelled at me, like, actually yelled, as in raised his voice, for... not washing the dishes? He was mad because he washed all of the dishes for a change... Um, does he have amnesia? Is that not what I did for an entire fucking year when he'd let his dishes sit for weeks and we constantly had fruit flies? He gave me so much shit about it. He couldn't make the "lifestyle changes" he wants to make because my dishes were in his way. He "couldn't cook" (bro, those are your dishes on the stove, not mine), couldn't wash his protein shake bottle, and most of the dishes "weren't his". Um, the entire left half of the sink contained only dishes that he dirtied, and it was full.

And you know what... He was right, those dishes weren't his - because I own them. So the next day, I packed up everything except two plates, two bowls, two glasses, and two forks, two spoons, etc. And then I took one of each of those items into my room, leaving him access to one set of dishes and silverware. He still has access to all the cookware and cutlery... But not for long. Because since then? He still hasn't washed the shit that was on the stove (But... but I can't cook!!!), and the entire left sink is full of dishes that he used. I wash mine every time I use them - the only thing I leave dirty is one butter knife that I use to dish out my cats' canned food. So, I actually threw away one of the two cookie sheets he had in the sink, because I'll be damned if I'm going to wash it. He's now left with the smaller, rustier, dirtier one. And I'm going to start packing up the pots and pans, too.

Ever since he yelled at me, I've kept up with my share of the dishes, I've kept the floors vacuumed, cleaned the stove top to bottom, de-cluttered the countertops and living room tables, organized the bathroom counter and shelves, etc, and he's... motherfucking trashed the place. He tracks mud in all over, works on his bike and gets the carpet all dirty, leaves trash on the kitchen counters, leaves clothes, shoes, socks, even underwear all over the place, leaves food sitting out in his room even though I have explicitly asked him not to, because we recently had an ant problem in the bathroom - due to a Jimmy John's sandwich wrapper he left in the bathroom trash... Why he had a sandwich in the bathroom is a question for another day. Last night, I came home and there was dirt all over my futon. I vacuumed it up, and today, I came home and there was more dirt, along with his filthy backpack that was caked in dried mud. And I told him not to put it on the furniture, and he just said, "Okay," like it didn't even register that this is never an okay thing to do.

He also kept me up at one in the morning last week when he brought two stupid girls over to smoke in the living room. I was beyond pissed. I packed up a bag and left to sleep at JK's place. I didn't even acknowledge the stupidass girl when she tried to say "I love yer candllllllle, it smells soooo gooooooood!" I just kept walking and shut the front door behind me. No, dude, you do not bring guests over at one in the morning on a fucking weeknight and then make a bunch of noise. That is not okay.

Suffice it to say, I'm fucking sick of his shit, and he's too oblivious to even register that. Tonight he invited me to the goddamned bar. No dude, we're not friends. I'm going to have to actually spell this all out to him. Like, I'm going to have to actually explain, "If you're going to yell at me about dishes, you'd better make goddamn sure that you keep yours clean." That really shouldn't have to be explained to someone who seems to think he's a damn genius.

So yeah, the last month or so, I've just been daydreaming about my new place. I can keep it as clean as I want, and as quiet as I want (Hopefully. Please, please please, let me have considerate neighbors). I can decorate to my liking, no one will ever be in my way, the fridge and counters and cabinets will be 100% mine. No one will ever hog the bathroom unexpectedly when I have to be at work in half an hour. I can unfold the futon and have JK spend the night. I can fuck my boyfriend in my own home!! I can walk around naked. I can sing, play music, spend time in the living room without being pestered. It's going to be a fucking paradise.

So hey, I've been writing for over an hour now, and I have work in the morning. Time to be done with this.

12:22 p.m. - 2015-06-02

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

previous - next

latest entry

about me

archives

notes

DiaryLand

contact

random entry

other diaries: