I’ve been trying to figure out why I’m feeling sad for missing out on an event I didn’t want to go. I reckon it’s not the event that’s got me down; but my fear of being denied to attend it by mother; and the anger that has then been evoked at myself, by myself, for not being brave enough to just challenge the rejection and do what I want anyway.
I feel sick about it. I shouldn’t be angry at myself for not knowing inherently the difference between obeying my mother and respecting her. I’m sure the latter can happen even if I disobeyed her wishes. But it’s been ingrained in me that one is the other and it’s all based on fear and nothing positive. The days of admiring her are so hard to recall, even. And now that my apathetic state isn’t engaged, I’m feeling every single thing in regard to her that I haven’t addressed in a long time, and it’s unnecessarily fearful. So fearful that it’s making me feel sick. Headache, nausea.
God, I want to cry but I can’t. Because when you’re being ridiculed for crying when you’re getting the shit beaten out of you, you tend to stop crying. I stopped crying and now it’s hard to do so when I feel like crying. In essence, I do cry but in actuality, a tear once in a while doesn’t cover the action of tear ducts releasing hormone-filled liquid in a physical expression of the tension going on inside your body.
I’m telling myself to smile; to forget about feeling the way I feel, but the thing about forgetting it and not experiencing it or confronting it is that I relive this every so and again. Because I don’t have a solution to it. I don’t progress beyond it. Apathy provides a cushion that leaves me unable to deal with it or care to deal with it; but it doesn’t solve anything. And I don’t want too have this over my head at 30. Or when I’m dead. Because I will be dead before my mother. Not out of spite (although that will feature); but out of necessity.
I wish I could tell them what I felt and why it hurts and harms me. But my mother wouldn’t care to listen and my father will forget by tomorrow morning. And he is worse than my mother. He tells her everything he dislikes about my actions and as such, she reacts to me with both hers and my father’s frustration at my actions, as well as her frustration at him for frustrating her about my actions. They don’t make living easy.