Old familiar madness

Here are, for your entertainment, a few recent interactions with my family.

First of, I´ve actually learned what my father was referring to when he was telling me the neighbors had remarked on the situation at home. A few weeks back my mother asked me if anything had been out of the ordinary lately. “No, why?” I replied. “Well,” she said, “I met the neighbor before I went on holiday and he asked me how you were doing.”

So that´s it. The neighbor asked “And how is your daughter doing?”. Talk about making a mountain out of a molehill. If you remember, my father believed he had uttered some form of criticism or worry. And apparently so did my mother, so he probably got that from her.

It´s so ridiculous I don´t even know what to say. The neighbor cares about how I´m doing, so I must have done something wrong or weird. And indeed I´m not doing well. My room is a trash bin, I don´t go to bed before five a.m. and when my mother is gone I can hardly make myself wash the dishes. Maybe this should worry her more than a random remark by a random neighbor, but no:

I don´t care if you´re depressed or anything, but if it starts bothering the neighbors you really need to draw a line.


Next. For my birthday, Irene wrote to me something along the lines of: “Happy birthday, and my wish for your birthday is that you write me more often.” Yes, for real. I didn´t bother reply to that, and today my mother told me that my sister was very unhappy that I hadn´t replied, and how emotionally fragile she was anyway because she has to move and leave her boyfriend behind because of her career.

Now why don´t I write my sister? Because she makes me feel like shit for everything I do? Because she lives under the assumption that I never do anything right, that I never work hard enough, that I am not independent and responsible enough? Because she doesn´t treat me like an equal? Because she tries to guilt-trip me even when she´s sending me her congratulations?

When I started college she actually warned our parents to take care I attend my classes and work hard enough. I learned about that one year later when I was so tired of my parents frowning at a B+ and constantly questioning my working morale that I told them Irene had said to me they don´t know anything about philosophy anyway. My father, slightly indignant, said: “But it was Irene who warned us to take care that you work!” It´s amazing how this girl is trying to “manage” our family. Why is she even surprised I don´t want to report to her regularly if I´m doing everything she told me to do? And why, if she constantly tells me what to do, is she surprised that I´m not independent?

Also, notice how my mother doesn´t give a fuck whether I´m mentally fragile?

Then, next, I realized that because of family dinner I won´t be able to watch today´s football match. Which made me realized that football is the only thing that makes me get up at all.

I was so angry that I couldn´t move. I felt like I couldn´t bear this, not one day longer. I had to put a stop to this. My own feelings can never hold their ground against the feelings that others inject into me. I´m homicidally angry, but the ignorance, the indifference, the blaming that I run into when I even think of my family makes it impossible to feel that anger for more than a few microseconds before everything goes numb inside of me. It is a dull, numb, unbearable pain that makes me feel so heavy, so depressed, so worthy of being pissed on that I can barely make myself move. It is the knowledge of how unable I am to even feel that I´m hurt, to feel anything other than that I am worthless, that makes me want to kill myself. Knowing how damaged I am, it seems like the only thing I can do for myself. A way to get the truth out, since I cannot even feel it for longer than a few fleeting moments.

Then I thought about what my family would do if I stabbed myself leaving them a note on the wall that said: “I hate you, you were a horrible family.” They would go see a therapist who would assure them that my suicide was a mean, terrible act of aggression (act of aggression is correct on some level), and that they did all they could, that we were a normal family and that I was always the problem child. Some people are born mentally ill, they would tell them. It´s not your fault. You did all you could. And they would reap all the pity and sympathy from the relatives and friends which they have and I don´t.

I have often imagined allies, previously neutral outsiders, who see my side of the story. Who come to me on their own accord and tell me that what is going on is terrible. Their support always felt very real, it often helped me ease feelings of extreme rage and self-hatred. But, fact is, there is no one out there in the real world who would say that. I have to remind myself of this because I retreat into this alternate reality whenever I´m not occupied with anything else. On some level I really am a bit lunatic, I guess. I do construct a false reality and believe in it. I guess what distinguishes me from psychotic people is that in daily life I behave as if I knew what reality truly looks like (for the most part), so apparently I do have some kind of reality check. Yeah, well.

So, those outside allies do not exists. If I kill myself, “my” truth dies with me. It perpetuates the lie. How else, though, do I keep the truth alive (pardon my pathos) if my own feelings are betraying me? If I´m so ruined that when someone hurts me what registers in my brain is not “I hurt”, but “I suck”? If the knowledge of how defeated I am doubles and triples my anger?

I´m finding it hard to write down any more because I´m starting to feel like a clichéd female Borderline patient out of some wannabe-thoughtful psychiatry drama. “Ooooo, do all the emotions get too much? Do you need to self-harm and then blog about it, poor little thing? What, punching yourself is not a pathetic coping strategy, but actual rebellion? Okay, glorifying self-harm goes too far! Now try to get that into your head: Self-harm is something very bad and serious and it is morally disgusting me that you cannot recognize that! You are extremely immature and irresponsible, you are not at all funny or interesting or original! Yeah, now go on and pout at me; this is so pathetic!”

So if I suddenly start shouting “yeah, I punch myself, and I don´t give a fuck what you think about it – ”

“Well, obviously you do care about it, otherwise you wouldn´t reply!”

“BECAUSE what I do with my body is my own business and I´m not responsible for what others are doing to theirs! Get off your high horse before I knock you down there with a baseball bat!”

My thoughts are constantly interrupted by little put-downs, smartass remarks, moral attacks and judgements, distractions. I´m starting to feel horribly angry and horribly tired again. It´s like five people at once mocking me, judging me, trying to provoke me and I have to try to reply to all of them and not lose track of what I actually want to say. Which makes me even more angry. Which increases the number of voices – and their meanness. I cannot feel anger without going into self-destruction mode. And that makes me pretty much helpless.





2 Responses to “Old familiar madness”

  1. vicariousrising Says:

    Your family is toxic. They make you think you’re crazy. Then you got Stoneface doing the same.

    It’s amazing that you aren’t actually crazy (or any more crazy that I am, lol, that ought to make you feel better!) given the piss poor messages you’ve gotten. You’re more resilient than you realize. You’re still truth-seeking. Keep it up. It gets better (of course, I say this as I am having an “I’m suddenly fat” crisis. Take me spouting off with that in mind :p )

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