It's been my excuse every time I'm accused of being disorganized: "I just have too much stuff and not enough space. Once I have more freedom and rooms, I'll be as tidy as I actually would like to be." That might be true, but we'll never know, because I came to an obvious conclusion that is of greater immediacy, and, effectually, of greater depth than, "Is the glass too small", "Am I just trying to fit too much", or whatever other glass metaphors you can come up with. What it all comes down to, the bottom line, is this: I'm going to have to move all this shit along with me, which is a drag on my prospective freedom, and makes having more room seem like a burden. Who wants to start a new life with an aggravating conglomeration of items associated with a handful of years that could easily weigh in as the worst years of his or her life–items that, by and large, have nothing but aesthetic and/or, "prospective usability", to offer? Certainly, it is, shod of all accompaniments, an almost inconceivable concept that, in approximately 7 months, I will be wholly responsible for my life, and its essential continuation—that I will be thoroughly without an accountable excuse if I'm not magically cured of the flaws in myself I attribute to my situation, or my past and the experiences therein. I already have what I want at least somewhat mapped out, and, when I find my mind drifting, it's usually bent on the questioning of if I'm a cartographer for La-La-Land, if I'm allowing sufficient room for change while marking the path that's best for who I'll be, or if I'm tracing roads chosen by the me I am, supposedly by circumstance, who I mean to leave behind. I will, of course, still be Eryn Morgan Scott, my face and height will stay the same, and my general personality is unlikely to really change—it's more that I expect the uninhibited peace of no longer being a burden on people I am pained to coexist with will make me so happy, give me so many new options. As is, I am a forced dependant upon a family with which I feel a debt both ways, which leaves me few moments between resentment and guilt. To think I will finally be rid of the constant constrictor, the adder, the rattlesnake, who has, since my premature expulsion from childhood, into cognitive existence, wrapped His exacting coils about my organs, (predominately those of the stomach and major respiratory persuasion), and squeezed from me my sense of security, my self-confidence, and my interest/faith in people and the world at large–He, who corrodes my body and my Self with the poison of his mouth, who would swallow me whole once his venoms strip me of the ability to move.
In case I have become too wrapped up in my metaphor, or in the event that you're some one's special little trooper, the snake represents fear. I don't belong here, these people are so passive-aggressive, and I can't stand the unclean feeling that it's melting into my pores. I feel like a crippled, the way I'm so frightened of speaking to people whose responses I'm not already able to anticipate. For example, when I am in this God be damned house, if I hear footsteps, my throat tightens, my stomach clenches, and my heart accelerates. I'm not frightened by the idea of having someone break and enter. I'm not concerned that there might be a murderer or rapist. I'm terrified that it might be my aunt seeking me out. She doesn't seek my company unless I'm about to be found at fault for something, or have something, "asked", of me. She does these things in this voice that makes me want to have my head pulverized by a falling brick wall, if only to drowned her out. Everything about her is so insincere. Her initial words, tone, and physical mannerism suggest she is some dainty, frightened damsel, trying just ever so hard to politely make a request of a giant, hairy barbarian. She can't just say that she wants something, or that I need to do (x) for her—no, she has to let out all the feelings she has experienced over the last month as she explains over, and over, and over why you're such a villainous slob, and how she thinks you've already ruined your life, and that you aren't capable of anything, and how it's even more of a crime because you are intelligent–you're just selfish, lazy, and reclusive. Never mind that you are, in part, that way because almost everything in her personality and set of values makes you want to rip out your ear drums and bang your head against the side of a concrete building. Never mind that she makes herself the martyr by expecting everyone to automatically know what she wants, berating them when they don't deliver, and only asking anything of them in anger. There is about a 2 to 3 ration of crazy amongst the women in my family. Hell, the only reason I maintain that I'm not truly crazy is because I think I am. I think it would almost be a sin for me to ever reproduce, at the risk of creating more of them–honestly, I love the idea of eventually getting around to that jazz, but the idea of creating anything so...ghwh, my Aunt Karen was the most loving female figure in all my memories. Granny was my other true idol. Anita was difficult to understand, and it was only great tragedy that brought us close, but she was a good woman. Grandmother, (more accurately, "Grum-uh-ther", or, "Gram-ah-ther", the latter of which I still use) was also major in my life, but Avery tainted me, and I was spoiled, and...well, Grams had already started into her Altheimerz decline either shortly before or after my birth. Courtney never really wanted me, but I was so oblivious...I was a dumb kid. I knew she'd given birth to me, so I assumed she was the mother I dreamed about. No one but Avery would try to tell me otherwise, because I'd cry and defend her. I also remember hiding and crying when my dad would pick me up from my Aunt Karen's, but that's because she actually loved and treated me as though she were my mother–that's what I always wanted more than anything: my mommy. As a small child, whenever I was upset with my dad, I always cried over how, "I want my mommy!" It never crossed my mind that she didn't want me. I didn't know that most divorced parents share custody of their kids. I must have been breaking Da's heart when I cried for her, because I know it was hard for him to raise two unbridled little girls, work from before the sun came up to often after it had gone down. I wish like hell I could make it up to him, now that I have better mental faculties, and I feel so robbed that I can't. I want to tell him that, even though I didn't understand at the time when he explained how, in his youth, he overcame his nightmares by recognizing that they were dreams and changing them, but that I started doing that. The only nightmares I can't undo are the ones where it somehow turns out that he's really still alive, and I can't reach him, because he just doesn't want me, the same way Courtney doesn't. I always wake up feeling like he's still alive, and that the last few years are what I've dreamed, but then the room comes into focus, and at first, it's not familiar, then it hits me all over again that he's gone. I was the most terrible person I've ever been while he was alive, and yet he always said I was his little angel. I remember Avery and I fighting with my grandmother to let us stay up until he got back from work to take us home, and then we'd hear the door, and we'd take off running down the hall. He'd squat down and we'd each hop onto one of his knees and cling to him. He must have been so exhausted, but I don't remember him ever looking anything but happy to see us. I feel so selfish that I want him back because he loved me and I want to make up for how little I appreciated him. †
Well, at least I don't ever have to worry about the cost of old folks' homes/death taxes/funeral cost/consoling children about Grandpa Jack's or Grandmother Courtney's passing, and whatever else adults with parents have to consider. The amount of love I got in 12 years, some people go their entire life without experiencing, regardless of how many parents were an active part of it, for however long. I'm not sure if I'm better for having it, if briefly, or worse, for feeling like I'm a flotation device that was lost at sea.
Funny how over the course of a few days, something that started out as an expression of optimism towards future horizons became a eulogy for the past.
† Am I, by nature, a bad person, that it took the disbandment and loss of my family unit to make me a truly considerate and reflective person, or is that just what happens to everyone when they hit puberty, thus making my nature somewhat irrelevant? Am I any less redeemable for developing into my current state of apathy and desired 'hermit-ism'? I'm so jaded, when I watch movies, I'm more likely to think about the director, the skill of each actor, the writers, the set, graphics, costumes, and the degree of predictability, that it's near-impossible for me to enjoy any story. I don't really watch T.V. I think all people are generally greedy and selfish, but do I think so because they are, or because I am?
P.S. I haven't reread this, and I really didn't even have the time to write the end of it, today. Obviously I did, but, my point is, if it sounds terribly emo or stupid, just write it off to hormones and re-read the first few lines or so. :P
