I don’t even know what to do anymore. I feel like I’ve failed my parents. I feel like I’ve failed my brother. And I feel like I’ve failed myself for wanting to move out. They need me here more than ever, and I don’t want to feel like I’m running away from my problems. I don’t want to abandon them.
I’m constantly playing mediator that sometimes I think I’m the only thing keeping this house together. That’s a really tough burden to bear, but it sickens me to think that I’m most happy away from my family.
Well, when they’re like this. Yelling. Screaming. Crying. When they’re breaking under pangs of guilt and only sustaining themselves by pointing fingers.
Logic tells me I shouldn’t feel guilty. None of this is really my fault, and yet, I still feel like it is.And I know the feeling won’t go away no matter how much I rationalize.
I just got a haircut, but clearly nothing drastic. Layers, angled front, and of course the side bangs. Having side bangs again means I have to wake up a little earlier than usual, but it is SO worth it.
I had classes from 9-5 today. I am fucking exhausted, and I am fucking stressed. I’m still trying to acclimatize to this schedule, I’m working tooth and nail to find a job, but I’m still doing my best to help my brother out with his college applications. Don’t fucking tell me I’m not doing anything, and don’t you DARE undervalue my problems by trying to ‘one up’ me with yours.
Only class of the day was cancelled. Here’s a shameless selfie to celebrate! WITH ALL THE TAGS!
Apparently, I am made of foxes, mangoes, ammunition. With a dash of Power Rangers.
I think today was the first time in a long time I was really blown away by snow. I think as you get older, the magic ebbs away until it becomes nothing but a petty nuisance. Slippery roads, piles of grey, sticky tufts that ruin the floor… but as I stood outside in nothing but my t-shirt and sweatpants, I didn’t feel cold. I felt refreshed. It’s falling down quietly, blanketing the neighborhood with a sense of serenity it hasn’t had in a very long time.
I knew I hated hospitals. The perpetual amount of knotted wires, the sterile smell that reaches your mouth, the incessant beating noise…
But what I really hate are children recovery rooms. We’ve got the pulsating machinery, the nauseatingly transparent tubes, the dour nurses, the awful coffee, but somehow adding poorly drawn clouds and rainbows on the ceiling just make it more chilling. If I had to lie down in a bed with wires protruding out of my body, the last thing I want to see is grass painted poop green and a sun that resembles a piss stain.
I forgot why they sent my brother there. I wasn’t exactly listening to the doctor as I was thoroughly preoccupied with Vampire Academy (which is, uh, an absolutely merciless read btw), but Eric didn’t seem to mind. Neither did my parents. Only I had a problem with it because I’m just a freak, ain’t I? I was fine in the lobby, really. But the moment I entered the recovery room, I was overwhelmed. I felt my chest constrict and my lungs practically shriveled. I was so uncomfortable, and to see my brother looking absolutely drained with several wires connecting with his body really gunned me down. He had a goofy grin on his face while he was drinking from a juice box, and that was an admittedly endearing sight, but I still get very anxious. It’s justified, I know that, but I still can’t help but feel stupid.
I think it’s also had to do with the argument last night—the one between him and my mom. That kid is so fucking reckless, and I know I’m not some sanctimonious bitch, but when I do it, it’s okay. When he does it, it’s not. And I’m not even saying this in jest; it’s true because even when I’m acting recklessly, or breaking the rules, I’m “smart” about it. I’m still guarded; I still have a level of caution whereas he’s too high from the rush that he just doesn’t know how to control it. That’s what scares me most. And seeing him in a hospital bed… I don’t know.
It just made me think that maybe one day, I’ll see him there for a different reason.
I love reading, I do, but I can’t help but feel a sense of emptiness whenever I finish a story. It’s like choosing to read this book is basically agreeing to cut out a part of myself and give it away to it. And no matter what, I’ll never get it back because part of me has been permanently embedded into its pages.
He’s at that age where he knows that bad things happen, but thinks they couldn’t possibly happen to him. And that’s what scares me most.
It’s my brother’s surgery tomorrow (or, today, technically. it’s 2:30AM) and we’ve been playfully jabbing him about it, and he’s been fairly lighthearted about the whole thing except I feel like he’s very nervous. I mean, of course he’s very nervous. And I’m not so sure how to console him about it, and it sucks because something like this isn’t really consolable. He’s not the type of person to sit down and willingly talk about it. He’s got this idea that every utterance, every movement, must be masculine and if being emotionally constipated is the masculine thing to do, he’ll do it. But I’ll try not to get into that discussion regarding gender roles.
I’m just really nervous for him. I don’t want to see him smiling, and then notice that he’s actually terrified, because it kills me. It kills me so much that I’m actually contemplating on not going.
But of course I will. I’m not that cruel. He’ll tell me he doesn’t care if I come or not, but I know he does, and I know I will. Christ.