Food for thought
Sep. 10th, 2006 09:06 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wakeiseiyoCame home from a more-or-less uneventful Tea class and found that Mom had spent much of the day with cubicalslinky. No biggie.
Except that she spent that entire day, including the dinner that just concluded, making a point of bringing me down. Talking trash, whatever.
The ugly truth is that I won't deny it; I was a lousy kid and I'm not exactly a stellar adult, but what hurts is her consuming NEED to make it known to the world. Some parents brag about their kids' accomplishments. My mom has decided that she will brag about everything that makes me suck.
Aside from being born, I'm having trouble figuring out just what it is I did to earn this. I don't get it. I got good grades, I don't drink, I don't do drugs, I don't wear clothes that let my T&A hang out. . . Everything that people bemoan about This Generation, I'm pretty much free of. So I'm a slob. So is she. I sleep late; hi Pot, this is Kettle. I don't do much on weekends. I never have. In both the academic and professional world, weekends are meant to be time off, time away from the Mondays of the world, the pantyhose and dry-clean-only blouses. I spend money, 'more than I should' - uhm, hello, *I* didn't buy the $8k sewing and embroidery machine still sitting in its box, mmk? The angry side of me wants to smack her upside the head with a mirror - nature AND nurture to prove my point, here.
And after 24 years, you'd THINK that this wouldn't hurt anymore. That I'd be well and done with the frustration and the hurt and the anger and the sense of helplessness that it will NEVER matter what I do, Mom will not find a single thing nice to say about me, either to my face or to other people, that she cannot follow up with a barbed comment about my personal failings. You'd think that I'd be used to hearing all this and not quietly dying a little more inside, or having to excuse the watery eyes and running nose for a sneeze, a cough, an oncoming migraine. Something that doesn't scream "hurt feelings, everybody!" at every turn.
Mom now wants to read my LJ; I told her she's going to have to get her own, then. Unless one of my illustrious readers wants to hand her the link and twist the knife, I'm just not going to go there. Or I will, after running this thing through the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
hidejournal machine. We'll see. I sense either better communication or an impending trainwreck. I think I'd better stock up on Kleenex, either way,
Except that she spent that entire day, including the dinner that just concluded, making a point of bringing me down. Talking trash, whatever.
The ugly truth is that I won't deny it; I was a lousy kid and I'm not exactly a stellar adult, but what hurts is her consuming NEED to make it known to the world. Some parents brag about their kids' accomplishments. My mom has decided that she will brag about everything that makes me suck.
Aside from being born, I'm having trouble figuring out just what it is I did to earn this. I don't get it. I got good grades, I don't drink, I don't do drugs, I don't wear clothes that let my T&A hang out. . . Everything that people bemoan about This Generation, I'm pretty much free of. So I'm a slob. So is she. I sleep late; hi Pot, this is Kettle. I don't do much on weekends. I never have. In both the academic and professional world, weekends are meant to be time off, time away from the Mondays of the world, the pantyhose and dry-clean-only blouses. I spend money, 'more than I should' - uhm, hello, *I* didn't buy the $8k sewing and embroidery machine still sitting in its box, mmk? The angry side of me wants to smack her upside the head with a mirror - nature AND nurture to prove my point, here.
And after 24 years, you'd THINK that this wouldn't hurt anymore. That I'd be well and done with the frustration and the hurt and the anger and the sense of helplessness that it will NEVER matter what I do, Mom will not find a single thing nice to say about me, either to my face or to other people, that she cannot follow up with a barbed comment about my personal failings. You'd think that I'd be used to hearing all this and not quietly dying a little more inside, or having to excuse the watery eyes and running nose for a sneeze, a cough, an oncoming migraine. Something that doesn't scream "hurt feelings, everybody!" at every turn.
Mom now wants to read my LJ; I told her she's going to have to get her own, then. Unless one of my illustrious readers wants to hand her the link and twist the knife, I'm just not going to go there. Or I will, after running this thing through the
hidejournal machine. We'll see. I sense either better communication or an impending trainwreck. I think I'd better stock up on Kleenex, either way,
