(no subject)
Saturday night sucked. Well, late Saturday night did anyway. Saturday during the day, I went to Towson and hung out with Chrissy, we watched Passion Of Mind, which was a great movie which I think I will need to track down and buy.
Then I came home, bummed around the house, played on the computer, harassed Gavin and talked about random stuff, part of which turned into a bit of a ramble about stuff that happened in the past and how I thought that some things were inevitable blah blah blah blah...and then the conversation ended, and I was going to go to bed. And next thing I know, I'm sitting at the computer with my head in my hands, trying pretty damned hard to keep myself from hyperventilating. Or barfing. Whichever, you know. Neither is pleasant. Well, I didn't barf and I was breathing ok without resorting to consuming caffeine but none of that was enough to stop the "Oh my god everyhigng that's ever happened has never stopped and is never going to stop and for the rest of my life my grandparents are going to keep telling me my mother doesn't care about me and berating me for "acting like Joyce" whenever I do or say anything they don't like and I'm never going to get out of this make it stop...."
This has only happened a very few times in the last couple of years, and was far less severe than sometimes in the past where all I could do was curl up on the kitchen floor and cry four hours at a time (somehow, I always ended up on the kitchen floor.) But it was bad enough. I called my mom- though, I should know better. I swear she channels the TV psychologist gods or something and was telling me that I needed to "acknowledge my emotions" and "let myself feel bad and be upset" and didn't have much to say when I responded with "I've been acknowledging my fucking emotions for sixteen years."
At some point in the middle of all this, she suddenly asks me if I knew of anyone who works with flax. ...excpet it didn't sound like flax. So it sorta went like this:
Mom: So do you know anyone who works with *garbled*?
Me: With huh?
Mom: Do you know anyone who works with slacks?
Me: With slacks?
Mom: Yeah. Slacks.
Me: Wait...do I know anyone who works with...pants?
Mom: No. Flax. F-L-A-X. The plant
It sorta devolved from there. Apparently she knows someone who wants to make Celtic knotwork out of dried flax plants as centerpieces for their wedding. Do what now? Good luck with that. I suggested making Brigid's Crosses instead and told her that I could even show her how to do that, but making knotwork out of dried plants seemed like an excercise in futility.
This 45-minute conversation was completely non-productive and pointless, and in the end I felt better...not because it helped me but because the whole thing was so absurd that I had to end it and feel better or risk getting deeper into the conversation where she would lecture me to remember to "pray to my angels"....it's been some time since she's had the opportunity to trot that one out and parade it around so I'm sure she's just itching to...this IS my mother we're talking about.
I'm going to go to bed now. I just realized it's past 330. Not that staying up late is a bad thign for me on Sunday nights.
But I am tired.
Then I came home, bummed around the house, played on the computer, harassed Gavin and talked about random stuff, part of which turned into a bit of a ramble about stuff that happened in the past and how I thought that some things were inevitable blah blah blah blah...and then the conversation ended, and I was going to go to bed. And next thing I know, I'm sitting at the computer with my head in my hands, trying pretty damned hard to keep myself from hyperventilating. Or barfing. Whichever, you know. Neither is pleasant. Well, I didn't barf and I was breathing ok without resorting to consuming caffeine but none of that was enough to stop the "Oh my god everyhigng that's ever happened has never stopped and is never going to stop and for the rest of my life my grandparents are going to keep telling me my mother doesn't care about me and berating me for "acting like Joyce" whenever I do or say anything they don't like and I'm never going to get out of this make it stop...."
This has only happened a very few times in the last couple of years, and was far less severe than sometimes in the past where all I could do was curl up on the kitchen floor and cry four hours at a time (somehow, I always ended up on the kitchen floor.) But it was bad enough. I called my mom- though, I should know better. I swear she channels the TV psychologist gods or something and was telling me that I needed to "acknowledge my emotions" and "let myself feel bad and be upset" and didn't have much to say when I responded with "I've been acknowledging my fucking emotions for sixteen years."
At some point in the middle of all this, she suddenly asks me if I knew of anyone who works with flax. ...excpet it didn't sound like flax. So it sorta went like this:
Mom: So do you know anyone who works with *garbled*?
Me: With huh?
Mom: Do you know anyone who works with slacks?
Me: With slacks?
Mom: Yeah. Slacks.
Me: Wait...do I know anyone who works with...pants?
Mom: No. Flax. F-L-A-X. The plant
It sorta devolved from there. Apparently she knows someone who wants to make Celtic knotwork out of dried flax plants as centerpieces for their wedding. Do what now? Good luck with that. I suggested making Brigid's Crosses instead and told her that I could even show her how to do that, but making knotwork out of dried plants seemed like an excercise in futility.
This 45-minute conversation was completely non-productive and pointless, and in the end I felt better...not because it helped me but because the whole thing was so absurd that I had to end it and feel better or risk getting deeper into the conversation where she would lecture me to remember to "pray to my angels"....it's been some time since she's had the opportunity to trot that one out and parade it around so I'm sure she's just itching to...this IS my mother we're talking about.
I'm going to go to bed now. I just realized it's past 330. Not that staying up late is a bad thign for me on Sunday nights.
But I am tired.
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