This more than likely makes me a bitch, but whatever…
My therapist is trying to get me to stop saying I’m white trash, but today I learned my father proposed to his second wife in an IHOP in 1985, and she ACCEPTED. So when I talk to my therapist tomorrow, I’m looking forward to seeing her trying to therapize THAT, and tell me white trash is not in my DNA somewhere.
Wait, do those 23 and Me kits test for white trash? That’d be amazing — get some SCIENCE on this shit.
Listen HERE, world. I only go to therapy every other week, so dumb family shit that’s going to eat my brain until vodka makes it stop can’t happen during off weeks.
It’s not even worth detailing because they’re SUCH stupid conversations, but did you ever have a mundane discussion with your family that just crawls under your skin and colonizes? Yesterday with Dad, today with Mom — almost as if they’d tagged in and out.
Remind me again, WHY don’t I just send the therapy bills to my parents? Wait, what? “Owning my issues because I’m a grown-ass lady?” That doesn’t sound like me at all.
I’m so grateful to have so many influences outside my family. And for the therapist. SO MUCH FOR THE THERAPIST. (And obviously for my willing/ableness to work and tell heredity to go fuck itself.)
*deep breath*
Turning into my Mother, Lesson 643: Whine about your feelings so much and so often that people grow weary and distance themselves from you.
Every day I drive past a billboard for a local support hotline, and it says, “Your problems are yours. Don’t blame your mother.”
And yes, absolutely — I’m a grown-ass person and I like to think I own my Crazy. I’m taking steps to fix it, and I try to warn the villagers whenever shit’s ’bout to get real.
At the same time… Are you sure about that, billboard? Haaaaaave you met my mother? I love her, and I don’t BLAME her, per se, but… I mean, c’mon, it’s pretty safe to say the apple didn’t fall far from the batshit.
I love spending time with my family. Well, OK, not really. But I do enjoy the opportunity to see my genetic potential for Crazy in its natural habitat and take steps to steer around it. It’s like a red traffic alert on your GPS: “Oh! Well, better not take THAT road.”
True, we’ve already established that I live on Uptight Pike, take frequent tours of the OCD Factory, and have become Foursquare mayor of the Nunnish Modesty Boutique. But I’ll be goddamned if I’m finding myself at Hoarding-Precious-Moments Junction.
Smug Singleton 