Sobbing, But Not Crying

Earlier in the day dad had asked to ask a question of me without a sarcastic response.

“Why do I sprinkle the salt from so high when cooking my food?”

He has asked me this before and I always felt like he was antagonizing me. Without thinking about the question at length, I answered him as seriously as I could, “I don’t know.”

While sitting here knitting, I pondered his question and finally realized why I do sprinkle the salt from so high: because there are two shakers – I am completely unaware of which is which – one sprinkles fast, one slow and I can’t fucking see.

Serious Truth: I sprinkle salt from high so I can see the sprinkles in the light and know how much salt is going into my food.

I just went over to my parents house to cook some Ramen Noodles (5 for $.99) for lunch. I approached my dad and said: “The reason I keep giving you a sarcastic response is because you keep asking me a sarcastic question – seriously, in what world does sprinkle height correlate to taste? Before I could continue with the discovered truth to his question, he interrupted me with his normal tirade about cleaning up after one’s self after cooking. I replied that when “everyone else – specifically, my fat-assed, active-addict – started cleaning up after themselves, I might be even more detailed. I kept the rest inside.

Now between you and me, I clean every time after I cook. Sometimes, by the time I get back to my garage, to eat with Mojo, the food is cold. Sometimes, I clean the microwave. Sometimes I clean the sink. Sometimes, I clean the stove. In my head, I feel like my dad is being unreasonable. I know he is right, and I would have explained that to him if he had not interrupted. I will pay more attention, but he could’ve been nicer about how he was communicating that to me.

Adding fuel to his inner fury is my brother – back from more “research,” which has thrown my mother into co-dependant mode. I am just as furious and completely disgusted at my mother’s and brother’s relationship dynamic. It is sickening to see.

Talking about all this with my cousin, I do see how my dad is acting out from his fury – for me: identified by the fact that my brother has not been welcomed back into their home this time – and I am making it personal. Still, my heart is broken (big time seriously, I am actually sobbing, but not crying) at the realization of who I had become, especially at the horizon of another layer being peeled away, when I am trying to change who I had become to the person I really am.

I am feeling like no one is there for me, not even my family. Here is another example: There are three recliners in the tv room: Mom, Dad, Guest. At first Mojo and I would go over to watch tv with them at time. Our visits became less frequent as I noticed the cup holder on the guest chair was always occupied with my father’s drink. Next – and I perfectly agree – Mojo was no longer welcome; indicated by no invitations to sit in dad’s lap anymore. Not a word has been said about Mojo, but I have stopped on my own, taking him over. I got the message loudly passively and aggressively.

I just don’t know what to do. My immediate plan: stay home…until dinner time. I hate to go over angry. My cousin says I should have accepted her invitation to breakfast this morning. When I though about it, she was right: had I gone to breakfast, I never would have had to cook this morning, prompting the question at all. I declined, claiming financial insecurity.

Moral of the Story: Say yes to the universe and universe will say yes to you!

Calling for housing assistance again.

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