I've had an account with Diaryland for almost a year now. I've gone through three templates and as many facelifts in terms of content, but I think I'm gonna stick with this one. I feel satisfied.
I have a problem with procrastination. I'm always scooting things around on my plate to make it look like there's less than there really is. In reality I'm rearranging the facts so that anyone looking in on my life (without getting too close) will think that I'm mature and capable cuz I have so few things piling up that I need to take care of. I'm like an addict, covering up the messy reality of my life so that I can continue my self-destructive patterns without any interference. Then I can look at all the capable people that I've attracted with my fools gold and kid myself that they are a reflection of who I really am. It's amazing all the complicated arrangments I can orchestrate with a minimum of conscious effort to keep my daily reality looking the way I like it.
In other news, I made my mother cry. I have never felt like such a stinky piece of shit in my entire life. The worst part is it wasn't an accident. That's right. I did it on purpose. Why? Because I'm a coward. My mother is an alcoholic, has been as long as I can remember. Without making this a big-long-story, suffice it to say that I have much red hot anger stored up because of certain types of treatment I've recieved from her not so sober self over the years. So when she came to stay for a few days, she got pickled one night, caused a ruckus in a restaurant, my step-father had to come drag her out, threatening a well meaning employee along the way (classy, I know) and dragged her back to the hotel room where she proceeded to call me, protesting her innocence and insisting, vehemently, that she was stone cold sober.
This is the part where I made her cry.
Instead of telling her that I would call her tomorrow and we could talk when she was sober, (which incidentally was the advice my husband gave me that finally got me off the phone with her) I let her have it.
To be fair, I started the conversation with the lofty idea that I would bestow some sober words of wisdom upon her, lighty dusted with reprimand, whereupon she would see the error of her ways, confess to her drunkeness, and quietly get off the phone with me. In about thirty seconds I had degraded to simply shouting on top of her garbled speech. I wouldn't let her get a word in edgewise. I knew what I was doing and I couldn't stop. It felt so bittersweet, letting the venom drip that has been stored away for so long while simultaneously knowing it was falling upon deaf ears. She started crying because she was so frustrated that I wouldn't let her state her case, with all my I-can-talk-louder-than-you savoir-faire.
After the phone call was over, I went up to bed, laying there, terrified that she would hop in her car and come roaring over to my house, banging on the front door, demanding to be let in so she could say her piece. She didn't. The rest of the visit dissolved into uncomfortable silences and the awkwardness that comes from carefully avoiding any subject that could be even vaguely related back to the "incident".
Still want to throw up every time I think about it.
If my husband comes home without coffee for tomorrow, I'm going to kick his ass, regardless of his good advice.
