In another one of my rage fueled fits, I threw my controller against the wall and didn't even notice as the pieces flew off in each direction. I followed my mother up the stairs, screaming after her, cupping my hands as she closed her bedroom door to screech, "That's right, hide in your room, you crazy cunt!"
As I stormed back down the stairs, my husband followed, concerned. Huffing, adrenaline coursing, I punched my mirror, willing it to shatter. It didn't even crack, despite how the impact hurt my knuckles. Nicholas was waiting just outside the bedroom.
"You have to calm down," he said in a low tone, trying to soothe me.
He put his hands on my arms as I seethed. I could only hiss, "I don't want to."
"I know," he responded, still calm. "But you have to."
Suddenly the thought struck me and as he led me to the couch, I croaked, "Now I know why Lloyd drank."
It couldn't have been easy for my father. The older I get, the more sympathy I feel for him. I've been fortunate that my mother has been on medicine for her schizophrenia and depression for some time now until very recently. Ironically, it's my fault. I have a very bad habit of not opening the mail except for once a month and as a result, I missed the deadline to renew her Medicare. Now she's out of her medicine and the ensuring mania has been driving me up the fucking wall.
Throw in the discovery of some masses in my throat, changing antidepressants, making a sudden and dramatic decision at my work, a period of unemployment in the family and you have one very stressed out Carly.
The magic phrase that sent me into this fit? "I read that Trump never drinks..."
Cue me screaming at my mother about how I've told her a hundred fucking times that I don't want to hear about Trump, I hate him, he's a misogynist, a racist, a fascist, a homophobe. She, of course, launches into shaky tears which enrage me even further. It's like she can't handle any kind of opposition or negativity. I'm constantly walking on eggshells, holding my tongue, until the quietly simmering anger bursts forth as scalding hot rage and suddenly I'm moving without thinking, lashing out with the most hurtful phrases I can think of to drive home the point that I don't want to hear this nonsense anymore.
It's exhausting. On one hand, my mother is very susceptible to whatever she hears on YouTube or reads on some random news website. On the other, she's thirty goddamn years older than me and as such I expect her to be smarter than that. The older I get, the more I realize that logic and reason have nothing to do with your age and much more to do with your education. Considering she dropped out of school, likely because of her schizophrenia, I shouldn't really be that surprised by how easily swayed she is by the constant feed of fear. But it's tiring and disappointing. Especially when no matter how many counterarguments you present, there's some illogical fallacy at the ready to knock it aside. You can't argue logically with someone who doesn't know what logic is in the first place.
In the entirety of my life, I've never felt like I was in charge of my own destiny. Maybe that's what really drives my choices. Me trying to chase down some semblance of power, some feeling of control. It's certainly why I used to cut myself. It let me take over how I felt, have some kind of control over my body when I had control over nothing else. I'm too old for that now but I sure miss how it made me felt. Like for one second, everything was okay and this was it, this was my pain and it was mine and mine alone.
Approaching adulthood, I fantasized about how I would be able to finally be independent. Make decisions without having to consider anyone else and if they were mistakes, so be it. They were my mistakes. Yet that time never came. Even when my mother was gone for the briefest period of time, I was still responsible for the destiny of other people. I still had to stay and work and grind and do whatever I could to help those around me. That's all I've ever done. Even before hitting 18, I was in charge of cleaning and cooking and paying bills. My mother said it was to teach me how to be an adult, to live independently. Now I think it was really so I'd know how to take care of everything for her when she eventually succumbed to her mental illness. The spinal and neck injuries were just the icing on the crazy cake.
My days off aren't my own. I still do all the cleaning. I had to grocery shop for the whole household. I make dinner and sit down to go through our budget, pay the bills, toss out the junkmail. I learned my lesson about getting behind on that, mostly. Tomorrow I'll have lunch with a friend and maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to spend some time doing something I actually want to do. Considering my leisure time was interrupted today by another fun Trump tirade, I'd really like that. But I also have to rake the yard and fill out paperwork for my mother. So we'll see what the schedule allows. Then it's back to five days of work, coming home so exhausted I usually fall asleep immediately upon arrival, passing out on the last day for a good 12 plus hours where the cycle repeats all over again.
This is why I turned down my promotion at work. I'm already so tired, so spread thin, so stressed. I'm going to pray for a four day schedule and tighten up the budget as a result. To have one more day, one day where I could maybe just be, just do what I want, would be glorious. Though knowing how my household works, I'll have to either leave the house or lock myself in my room. I'm just one step away from becoming my mother.
I guess at least the daily panic attacks have stopped. And I'm still adjusting to the new meds but my withdrawal symptoms from the previous SSRI I was taking are finally gone. Now all I have to do is buckle down for what I fear will be a long winter. Let's hope I don't descend any further into insanity than I already have. I guess we'll see, eh?