Sunday Funk #3

Finally, I'm really scared that my parents are going to force me into seeing my uncle (the really awesome homophobic, washed-up patriarchal joke - you know, that one). Which is dumb because I have control (except that it never feels that way when one was in das homeland and in certain ways, I just don't). But my visit also coincides with a family birthday (another fabulous aunt), and I'm afraid that I'll be forced into having dinner with him again. And though my parents realize he's acted like a revolting fuckface to me (not their choice of words, mind you), I'm the one with the problem. As my father told me recently, I'm "ridiculous" if I'm avoiding das homeland because of my "fears." My parents, who have neither advocated on behalf nor aimed to limit my exposure to him...

Or even allowed me to limit it for myself. Love them some victim-blaming. Anyway, I feel super-triggered and wicked scared and pretty embarrassed to share this. But I'm going to anyway because I love reading the work of bloggers who open themselves up to vulnerability. Also, many of the folks who read this won't love me any less for being a freak right now. Finally, I'll leave you with three moments from yesterday to mitigate the overall angst of this post. Funny or sad?

1 - While smelling the wool with which I was knitting (why? it was humid. I wanted to see if it smelled more like a sheep. perfectly reasonable. don't judge), I poked the corner of my eye with my knitting needle. Really hard. 2 - The same skein of yarn had wound itself around my leg during the ride, and I fell out of the truck when SB and I arrived at Great Harvest Bread Company. 3 - I went to this awesome place of yeasty goodness for a cinnamon roll - of which they had none. The manager offered me some "hot-dog buns or hamburger rolls" in lieu of a cinnamon roll. Worst trade-off ever. I walked out the door.

Sunday Funk #2

I thought it might be nice to have some low key time with them. Also, I thought I could help out with the care of my great-aunt, who's having surgery, so I coordinated my visit to coincide with that little trip to the hospital. Though these reasons still stand (I adore my great-aunt and one never knows how much time one has left with one's parents), I've grown increasingly alarmed by the recent tenor of my mother's phone conversations. Given the narcissists with whom she was raised, she turned out freaking awesome. But she's still emotionally stunted in so many ways and often turns to me to parent her. For instance, she'll call me to tell me how stressed she is about work and life and such without so much as inquiring about my life. And that would be cool, on occasion, except that we don't have that kind of rapport; I never call her for anything - just the obligatory "check-in." Our interactions are never mutual, and I just end up feeling really, really used. And if I make the mistake of mentioning something of authentic interest to me, she doesn't respond - like really. She either changes the subject or I listen to an uncomfortable silence on the phone, a silence that turns my stomach because it's synonymous with her disdain and disapproval. Precisely because she doesn't value it and couldn't imagine anyone else finding value in it either.

Sunday Funk #1

I am in a total funk, and I have spent the better part of the day in denial about it. I got up at a reasonable hour and proceeded to finish some academic work. I called my best friend. I texted with my favorite sister (I have two!). I began preparations for Cuban black bean soup, which is simmering on the stove as I type. Rosemary focaccia rises nearby. I cuddled with a sleeping dog, who kept hitting my face with his paw. I even knit a sleeve while watching an episode of The X-Files because I have an enormous hetero-crush on David Duchovny and the show itself is just fabulous.

All this, however, failed to improve my funk, and I suspect that I am totally freakout out about concerned by two items - my birthday and an upcoming trip to my parents' home. Regarding the first, I just don't like it. I've despised my birthday for years. It has nothing to do with aging, and the particulars are so involved (and stretch so far back) that it's enough to say - I have my reasons. And they're excellent ones. And though friends and lovers, who are aware of my annual angst, have organized fabulously kind events in an attempt to make me love my birthday, I'd just rather skip through the whole damn thing this year. Minus the presents. I'm not that ridiculous.

This angst, which relates back to familial issues, is further exacerbated by an upcoming trip to das homeland. Two weeks ago, this trip seemed like a fabulous idea - a summer visit is not the same as a Christmas visit, and I thought I'd be okay by myself. Nevermind that my therapist told me not go back without a supportive friend or partner. As my parents are aging and certainly won't visit me because their schedules are far too busy and I'm not high enough up on the priority list.