I had a title for this long post on the update of the situation, but all the writing made me forget it
Ok, an update is the best idea at the moment, since I have absolutely nothing to do.
One, I am not moving, after all.
We are at the non-talking stage, which is fine for me, and I don't care if he thinks he's right and that I'm an arrogant idiot.
To think that it all started with one of his usual remarks about whether I knew the glycaemia index of my third slice of bread (bread is one of the few foods I still enjoy eating: most things have bored me, even those I really used to love, like - hear, hear - chocolate and ice-cream. So being one of the foods I still enjoy eating I sometime behave like a greedy pig and eat a slice too many, because it is so good).
My reply: Doh! Of course I do, you boring bastard!
(A-hem, that was the answer in my mind only: I still feel like I should pay respect to the people who brought me on this planet and took care of me for nearly twenty years, despite the way they - he - treat me). I wasn't born yesterday, and being this food-obsessed person I always know what's going into my stomach: its nutritional qualities must pass a strict test set up by my brain which will otherwise command to stop the food from going down.
Like fried things: a small bite is as much as my stomach accepts before feeling sick; same thing for butter-rich food, like...anything, really. And so on.
I mean, I read and study on almost a daily basis about all these subjects, and I know the values of everything that I ingest. So, I know that sunflower bread does have a high glycaemia index and therefore will take my sugar level up to the stars, only to suddenly crash down and make me feel hungry. But I am allowed foods of this list every now and then, like a couple of times a week, which is when I have some white bread at lunch and my special weekend breakfast with my beloved rice pudding. So, to cut it short, stop taking me for a nursery school child, will you?
Oh, god, I'm so sick of fighting over these idiotic subjects.
How many 28 year-old people must argue over food, or sleep patterns? Over the amount of bran I add in my yogurt in the morning (low glycaemia index vs. 4 slices of white toast with butter and jam, which is his breakfast...followed by a bowl of tea and two pills to control his heart and blood pression...)? Over catching up with the fruit I don't eat during the day by snacking lightly after my run with a fruit cocktail and a mug of hot milk? Over spending my weekends the way I prefer, that is usually running, seeing a couple of friends, running again, reading and watching tv, and not necessarily going men-hunting in order to find somebody to marry and settle down? (Ok, these are not the right days to think about my emotional situation, what with the B&S guy. But still, his idea is that I should have found a man by now, and seriously settled with children and so on, and every time a friend of mine announces a wedding or a birth, or a move-in with the boyfriend, I have two reactions: the first is self-pity at my miserable condition, then the anger at the response I'll get in the family. But this is entirely a different story).
I remember the time he told my brother to go out and catch some sun, because he looked like an ill old man: we were in the middle of July and my brother is a bit of a lizard, unlike me, but when it's too hit even lizards hide in the shade, particularly with about 40°C and the highest rate of humidity recorded in the past 50 years. Brother got so angry at being called a slug (literally) that snapped and started an argument over being adult enough as to decide independently what was best for him, and the usual things we both say and think every time "god" wants to give us pieces of his illuminated mind.
Which we don't really want, thank you.
Which we have received for all our lives and therefore cannot bear anymore.
Which are mostly total nonsense and even out of time, sometime, or spoken out of sheer arrogance for being "the one who knows".
Like, practical and recent example: I booked a flight for him to go to the convention of the company he works for. Booking made for Friday morning. He then received news that the company had changed the bookings to Thursday night. He tells my mother, who wonders how they got to change a reservation I had done, paying with my credit card and using my details. He laughs, and says that we're not in the middle age any more, you know? That the company guys must have contacted Ryanair and told them the change all the reservations for them all.
Now, you sensible people, how idiotic is this? Of course my booking had not been changed...for Ryanair would have asked my credit card details, and the company couldn't have them...
So, the answer was, the company had booked the flight by themselves and paid for all, then changed all the reservations: my booking had been done by mistake, because "god" had not understood a single thing of what they had told him and had thought he had to book himself.
40 euros wasted which I will never see again, but that's not the point.
Last night I was thinking about how sad it is, when you get to the point of hating somebody and wishing him to be dead.
Because that's my feeling.
He's useless on this earth, and has always been.
He's getting worse and worse.
When he's out for work and cannot come home for lunch, we are happy.
This is sad, isn't it?
I remember when I wrote that composition at the primary school, the first step of my writing career (I'm being ironical here...): when I had to describe my mum, I only got an 8; but with the description of my father, it was the school master who read it and gave me a 10.
I know it's the typical feeling of daughters for their fathers, a special love, some sort of Aedipus complex (the Electra complex, I know. If your mind develops normally you overcome it, of course), so I was a lot more inspired when I wrote that than when I wrote the one about my mother.
(I should say that I went past the stage of overcoming the complex: I simply crossed the line between love and hate, and what's worse, I was brought to it! But what is worse still, is that so many things he does are done in the belief that they are for good, for my well-being. And his anger when I refuse to listen to him is because he wants to help me and I don't accept his help!)
But to think back now, about all the love, is too sad.
My very first memory is of me sitting on his lap, when I was really little (we were still in the wood house, so I can't have been more than 2). We were watching tv and I remember my thought to be that with the blanket wrapped around us I was too hot, but without it I was cold.
This is my first memory.
Sad beyond comprehension.
This is not even the beginning, really, but I'll stop here.
And I don't even know how to conclude.
One, I am not moving, after all.
We are at the non-talking stage, which is fine for me, and I don't care if he thinks he's right and that I'm an arrogant idiot.
To think that it all started with one of his usual remarks about whether I knew the glycaemia index of my third slice of bread (bread is one of the few foods I still enjoy eating: most things have bored me, even those I really used to love, like - hear, hear - chocolate and ice-cream. So being one of the foods I still enjoy eating I sometime behave like a greedy pig and eat a slice too many, because it is so good).
My reply: Doh! Of course I do, you boring bastard!
(A-hem, that was the answer in my mind only: I still feel like I should pay respect to the people who brought me on this planet and took care of me for nearly twenty years, despite the way they - he - treat me). I wasn't born yesterday, and being this food-obsessed person I always know what's going into my stomach: its nutritional qualities must pass a strict test set up by my brain which will otherwise command to stop the food from going down.
Like fried things: a small bite is as much as my stomach accepts before feeling sick; same thing for butter-rich food, like...anything, really. And so on.
I mean, I read and study on almost a daily basis about all these subjects, and I know the values of everything that I ingest. So, I know that sunflower bread does have a high glycaemia index and therefore will take my sugar level up to the stars, only to suddenly crash down and make me feel hungry. But I am allowed foods of this list every now and then, like a couple of times a week, which is when I have some white bread at lunch and my special weekend breakfast with my beloved rice pudding. So, to cut it short, stop taking me for a nursery school child, will you?
Oh, god, I'm so sick of fighting over these idiotic subjects.
How many 28 year-old people must argue over food, or sleep patterns? Over the amount of bran I add in my yogurt in the morning (low glycaemia index vs. 4 slices of white toast with butter and jam, which is his breakfast...followed by a bowl of tea and two pills to control his heart and blood pression...)? Over catching up with the fruit I don't eat during the day by snacking lightly after my run with a fruit cocktail and a mug of hot milk? Over spending my weekends the way I prefer, that is usually running, seeing a couple of friends, running again, reading and watching tv, and not necessarily going men-hunting in order to find somebody to marry and settle down? (Ok, these are not the right days to think about my emotional situation, what with the B&S guy. But still, his idea is that I should have found a man by now, and seriously settled with children and so on, and every time a friend of mine announces a wedding or a birth, or a move-in with the boyfriend, I have two reactions: the first is self-pity at my miserable condition, then the anger at the response I'll get in the family. But this is entirely a different story).
I remember the time he told my brother to go out and catch some sun, because he looked like an ill old man: we were in the middle of July and my brother is a bit of a lizard, unlike me, but when it's too hit even lizards hide in the shade, particularly with about 40°C and the highest rate of humidity recorded in the past 50 years. Brother got so angry at being called a slug (literally) that snapped and started an argument over being adult enough as to decide independently what was best for him, and the usual things we both say and think every time "god" wants to give us pieces of his illuminated mind.
Which we don't really want, thank you.
Which we have received for all our lives and therefore cannot bear anymore.
Which are mostly total nonsense and even out of time, sometime, or spoken out of sheer arrogance for being "the one who knows".
Like, practical and recent example: I booked a flight for him to go to the convention of the company he works for. Booking made for Friday morning. He then received news that the company had changed the bookings to Thursday night. He tells my mother, who wonders how they got to change a reservation I had done, paying with my credit card and using my details. He laughs, and says that we're not in the middle age any more, you know? That the company guys must have contacted Ryanair and told them the change all the reservations for them all.
Now, you sensible people, how idiotic is this? Of course my booking had not been changed...for Ryanair would have asked my credit card details, and the company couldn't have them...
So, the answer was, the company had booked the flight by themselves and paid for all, then changed all the reservations: my booking had been done by mistake, because "god" had not understood a single thing of what they had told him and had thought he had to book himself.
40 euros wasted which I will never see again, but that's not the point.
Last night I was thinking about how sad it is, when you get to the point of hating somebody and wishing him to be dead.
Because that's my feeling.
He's useless on this earth, and has always been.
He's getting worse and worse.
When he's out for work and cannot come home for lunch, we are happy.
This is sad, isn't it?
I remember when I wrote that composition at the primary school, the first step of my writing career (I'm being ironical here...): when I had to describe my mum, I only got an 8; but with the description of my father, it was the school master who read it and gave me a 10.
I know it's the typical feeling of daughters for their fathers, a special love, some sort of Aedipus complex (the Electra complex, I know. If your mind develops normally you overcome it, of course), so I was a lot more inspired when I wrote that than when I wrote the one about my mother.
(I should say that I went past the stage of overcoming the complex: I simply crossed the line between love and hate, and what's worse, I was brought to it! But what is worse still, is that so many things he does are done in the belief that they are for good, for my well-being. And his anger when I refuse to listen to him is because he wants to help me and I don't accept his help!)
But to think back now, about all the love, is too sad.
My very first memory is of me sitting on his lap, when I was really little (we were still in the wood house, so I can't have been more than 2). We were watching tv and I remember my thought to be that with the blanket wrapped around us I was too hot, but without it I was cold.
This is my first memory.
Sad beyond comprehension.
This is not even the beginning, really, but I'll stop here.
And I don't even know how to conclude.
posted by Peggy @ 11:23 AM
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