Meh

I stayed up late during the night listening to Italian songs and doing copious amounts of English homework that I left to the last minute. I thought dark thoughts about my parents. It's best they don't read this, I suppose.

I can't help but feel that they don't understand me. When I try to communicate myself to them I get no where and only make matters work. They either mock me as though I was a small child or the criticize what I say or they comfort me and say, "oh, you don't mean it, you are tired..." and often I give in and agree because I know they are not really hearing me anyway.

This problem between my mom and I is deeper than a single fight which burns and then recedes. It even goes beyond her never ending nagging, although that is an undeniable part of it.

When it suits her I am not her daughter but her friend and her confidante. When that does not suit her I am her daughter. There is no democracy, she says, though I don't ask for democracy, only the right to lobby and make my feelings known.

And my dad is no better, he is almost worse. I think he could understand me if he tried, but of course he must support my mother. He mocks me and says "I know you can't stand to not be heard." That was cruel - to mock me for that earlier this summer. It's true! I admit as much! I will not be ignored. I am not that sort.

And when he said I didn't find acceptance in my peer group, so I searched for it within the family... Ha! What are families good for if you have to search for acceptance within them? To hell with them all.

I'm well liked. I am. No one else has a quarrel with me. I even have good friends, though not many of the classic sleepover variety. I have people I trust and care about very much. And my teachers love me - not just as a student, but as a person. I adore them too and love the stimulation of the school day, even when it leaves me exhausted. My babysitting clients love me - I'm quite popular. And I do a good job at work and adore my coworkers.

But whatever I do, it's never quite enough for my mother. Oh, when she's in the mood to be she can be perfect. She shines so much in those moments it's harder to blame her in the others. But if only it could be more spread out! When she is not in the mood... when she is unhappy or even just discontent, which happens rather often, it's never enough. My grades are good and my character is outstanding and I don't ask for money. So she moves on to friends and fashion and calls me out for that. When I do well enough there and she can't blame me, she finds other stuff. I try to meet her demands, but there is no pleasing her, she'll keep moving down the line. My room isn't kept well enough, I don't walk Tidbit often enough, why haven't I planned the trip yet?, I never help with the meals, why am I so dreary?, I'm not nice to mommy, I shouldn't use that tone of voice, I don't get enough protein, I don't get enough calcium, I need to not do so much, I should stop babysitting at the Maniscalco's, I shouldn't take so many classes, I should brush Tidbit's teeth more often, I haven't burned her CD yet, why haven't I helped with the scrapbook?, why do I always waste food?, why do I spend so much time on my homework and not enough on the house?, why is the bathroom a mess?, I keep too many books, what about that journaling I should have done... I DONT ANSWER MY CELL PHONE... WHEN IM IN THE HOUSE...

There are times I wish I could really be bad at something so the nagging might at least be consolidated and I could hide behind the old "I'm working on it." And other times I fantasize about being bad at something to punish her. And still other times I dream that I might somehow do everything she asks and still live, still work, still attend school with passing grades, still be cheerful. And then she'd be happy with me. All of the time. But that fantasy's harder to keep up now that I haven't even time to properly check my email or write or read, and even to write this blog post cuts into my sleep and I will pay for it later...

They always say I'm going hysterical and throwing a fit. I am not throwing a fit - I am quite cold. It has been hours since the last incident, because thankfully they are in bed. They wont take me seriously and despite the fantasies I start accepting that they never will. So I look out to the exit, when I will go away. After that when I come home I will be visiting and things will be different. And once I'm out in the world, far away, whose to say that I will ever look back?

Yes, they've been good to me in so many ways...

... And don't think I've forgotten...

... But I'd rather be heard. Taken seriously. Accepted.

No, I am not hysterical, I am not throwing a fit, this is not about not wanting to take the trash out or go pick up my sister. This is a basic question of respect and understanding. You do not understand me, mother.

Do you even know what really brings me joy, when math and work and nagging starts to blur together? I stay up late if I must, cutting into my sleep, because I must... And when I study languages that keeps me sane... you don't understand that it is my passion, that it heals me.

I know you don't understand me and can only laugh when you say, "Miranda, drop a language, don't do the Italian, you'll have more time." Maybe I should have more time... but I should lose myself.

Strange that I can hardly rely on people. Some times I can rely on my mother, but I can't rely upon relying on her, if that makes sense. It's not her fault, she is human after all. But so is everyone else. How can I describe this? It's mad. Absolutely mad.

But when my soul feels quite heavy and I weep, because I never want to look back, and I feel that I should, for she is my mother and has provided for me so well so often, it is my studies that I turn to, that comfort me. The written word that shines on new smelling pages, the flash cards I write with a shaking hand, and use over and over again, the words I whisper as I fall asleep.

And how can I give that up? I can't. But you can't understand. Who can? I'm not sure. I think I must be quite mad. But still... if I trouble you then leave me alone. I am happy with myself and content with my madness. You have your own, even if you don't see it. And someday I'll find my place in the world as you have in yours.

You've said before that you hope I have a daughter just like myself. A freak, you mean. Yes, I hope I do too. I can understand a freak like me. I'm frightened of not understanding my daughter, but of course I won't because she can't be just like me. Still, I want her to feel understood. I want to understand the lack of understanding, and be comfortable with it.

Please, understand that you don't understand. Let me be who I am. I'll try to help you. I'll try to remember you're nagging me for my own sake. But it's all a little much. I don't need things slower and louder. Try to understand that you don't understand...

When I close my eyes I see a world you don't see. I think of things you don't think of. I don't know what you think of, but I don't think you're happy with it, either, so don't pity me. We have our own heavens and our own hells.

Someday soon I'll walk away from this place. And I'll find acceptance. Even if I have to walk all the way to my death to find it... Someday I will. Acceptance of what isn't me isn't really acceptance. I cannot change. I think... I believe I will find it before the end. But if I don't I will still walk bravely. I can be strong.




Please. Understand that you don't understand. Let me try to find my own happiness, even if I don't find it until I walk all the way to my death. I cannot be otherwise...