May 26th 2017

A failed attempt at positivity: in People suck. Cats are awesome. Dogs are alright.

•  May 26, 2017, 9:40 a.m.
 
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• Public

I’ve had an unusually stressful few weeks, dealing with abrasive people and unforeseen situations. (Loud kids in public places, a serious needle phobia in relation to MRI contrast, and neighbors unfamiliar with the definition of the word “trespassing”.)

So I think I’m going to take a few minutes to list some of the things that I like about my current situation. It might help me feel less homicidal.

Financial security is nice. The bills are paid, and I’ve got a bunch of crap coming in the mail from Ebay; the best of which is the most gorgeous jacket I’ve ever owned.

Which goes into the next thing. Accepting the things about myself that I previously had deemed too immature to see the light of proverbial day. This jacket is a colorful, metallic, paisley. It has a black background, and black trim, so it’ll still match the rest of my wardrobe, more or less. And I’m buying furbies. And more string lights. Both of which will stay in my bedroom and art room, because I’m not self-accepting enough to put them in the main part of the house. I’ve got a framed Warcraft poster in the living room. That’s enough immaturity for that part of the house.

My dog is awesome. Cats will always be my preference, but it’s nice to have an animal that tries to respond the way she thinks that I want her to. If I sit down, she puts a ball on my lap. If I fail to throw it, she just keeps bringing me stuff. Socks, a roll of paper towels, other toys, a scouring pad from the sink; whatever she thinks looks appropriate. I had my doubts when she was younger, but she’s really shaped up.

Cats are perpetually the best thing ever. They’re the only living things that I get a “warm” feeling just from being in close proximity to.

The Male takes second place to the cats, but he’s pretty damned cool, too. He’s paying for everything while I pursue SSI, and we haven’t had a fight where I’ve been reduced to genuinely wanting to do him serious physical harm in more than three months. And with my (non-existent) fuse, that’s saying something.

The house is mediocre, but we own it. Which means that I can paint the walls black and gray, and whatever else I deem aesthetically appealing.

We’re going to a Chinese Buffet and shopping this weekend. That should be nice.

Next month we’re going to Menards to buy a f!@# ton of home improvement stuff, and that will also be nice.

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At this point, going down the list of significant things in my life right now, my brain comes to my Mother. About the only good thing I can think of about her is the fact that her lung cancer continues to hold at its previous, shrunken state; so I don’t need to rush to go and see her in the immediate future. I’ll still have to go at some point, though, and I absolutely dread it.

No one in Oklahoma, (where she lives, in the same tiny town as her other two children and multitudinous grandchildren), will help me deal with people while I’m there; and the Male can’t come because he has to stay here to take care of the dog.

So I’ll be flying down alone, into certain multiple meltdowns, and an empty motel room; so I can fulfill my obligation as a daughter, to a woman who has rejected me multiple times.

Why?

Principle. Pure, unadulterated principle.

So that when she’s dead I can tell myself that I did my best. Unlike her, I adhere to something better.

And I wish to no end that she would cross that line, and say something just blatantly abhorrent enough, so I’d be absolved of my obligation.

But my mother is the queen of projected guilt.

The best, most ideal thing here, would be for her to die suddenly; say from a heart attack. Then I could just stay home.

I don’t “love” her, (I don’t think, but what is love?), but I’m still obligated to her, because of my father. He loved me, and he would want me to go. - Of course, he would also have prevented her from abandoning me in the first place, or saying any of the horrible things she’s said since he’s been gone; but I honor him. Not her.

Incidentally, I’m 90% sure that he was also an aspie.
It would explain a lot, not least of which was his understanding of me.