I didn't get a chance to do what I intended to do in the previous post. I waited about 30minutes for the bus in the snow before it showed up, going the opposite way, therefore it would be another 20 minutes until it showed up. I turned around and went back to bed. Really, I would have been severely late for my first class and, as we all know, I hate my afternoon class, am going to fail it and, at this moment in time, don't really give a shit.
So maybe on Monday I'll do some vandalizing.

In other news, I am going to both snap and die.
I am going to snap if only because I'm so insanely stressed right now, and essay due dates are looming, and tests are approaching, and I have yet to apply to post-grad school, and I'm sinking into depression again.
I am going to die because my father has been diagnosed with type 2 diabetes.

My mom is down this weekend and, so far, other than a visit to a friend, this weekend has been complete shite. She's hearing tales of woe from the grandmother who is becoming irritated with me because it appears she wants me to read her mind. Case in point, earlier this evening, my mother came into the back room where I was watching the discovery channel and told me that I should "at least try to be kind." I asked what she was talking about and mom told me "she wanted to sit out here, so you should have read her mind."
Seriously.
Like, really?

So I'm up in my room now. I had gone down to the front room for about 5 minutes, couldn't find anything to watch, gave up reading "The Fat Girl's Guide to Life" but because at the moment I am feeling insanely fat, I gave up and came back up here.

This afternoon at lunch (mom and I had gone out), she told me about my dad (after eying me rather disapprovingly after I ordered a Pepsi). My dad's in denial. Really, we saw it coming. He's big. He's Italian. He eats. That entire side of my family is that way. Hell, at big family dinner's, my Nonna tells me I'm her favorite because I "try at least one of everything." Which is great, it means I have tried and love roasted eggplant and artichokes and other weird, or at least weirdly prepared, vegetables and seafood. But that's also bad, because it's something I've taken into my life as an absolute: food is love.
I know I know I know, I'm supposed to be flabulous. I'm supposed to be loving my body for what it is. But when I'm told by my mom to "just be aware. It can be hereditary" and that now she's "thinking of putting [me] on the same restricted diet" as my dad...well, I smiled and nodded but it felt like she had already put a death sentence over my head.
You know what, I probably do have diabetes. I probably am going to die because of my weight. But I'm also sure in my firm stance that "ignorance is bliss."
I had a friend in highschool. We went out for lunch one day. We were the only two of our group at school, and she was used to going out for lunch with her dad (a teacher at said school) and he was busy. So I volunteered to tag along. I brought my own lunch with me, I just went as company. As a good friend.
She ate her fries with mayo. I had never seen someone do that before. I asked her about it, nervously, but she answered quite calmly and comfortably that, hey, you only live once, so she was going to enjoy every bit of the time she had. I envied her. I sat there and ate my cheese and crackers and wondered why my mom insisted, after I told her about that, that my friend was going to die an early death. Why did my mom have to put that death sentence over her head?

Why does my mom have to put that death sentence over my head?

She told me that my dad is trying to cope, but it's going to be hard because he, like me, is set in his ways.
His second-in-command-type guy at work has type 1, and my mom told me that he told my dad that the first thing to do is not blame yourself. To not tell yourself that it's your fault that you're in this mess. My mom wishes he hadn't told my dad that. She hates it. She, and we, and my dad to probably, know that it is his fault. Our family's relationship with food is a passionate one. It's the Italian, food=love/food=acceptance mentality.
I told my mom that, maybe, for now, it's best that he doesn't blame himself, or he might sink into a depression. My mom agreed, but she's just waiting for him to start blaming her for his situation.
I tried not to say anything.
Really? I'm sorry, but that sounds a little self-centered.
If he doesn't blame himself, then maybe he'll be motivated to make the changes that need to be made! In the end, it's his health that matters, not her sense of blame.

So now my mom wants me to make the same changes. Fine. Sure. Whatever. As long as she's the one who tells that crazy Nazi downstairs about it. The same crazy Nazi who, when her friend was diagnosed, was convinced that the woman wasn't "that sick" and that all she needed to do was stop eating cookies and cake. Sure. Fine. You tell her, mom.

All I've ever been told in my weighty years of life is over-friendly words of "advice."
I just had to eat my fruits, then I'd be fine.
I just had to walk more, then I'd be fine.
I just had to realize that I'm probably doing to get and die from diabetes, then I'd make changes and be fine.
I just had to lose a few pounds, then I'd be "such a pretty girl."
I just have to love myself more, then I'd be fine.

It's the last two, the last two that I've heard from my grandmother and my own mother, so many times, that make me wonder why they even care. I mean, if I'm not good enough by their standards, why even bother mothering me? Taking care of me? Talking to me? Caring about my life?
If I only lost a few pounds, then I'd be so much better in their eyes.

What about my eyes, huh? How can I start loving myself in this toxic environment?
How can I start loving myself ("enough to lose the weight") if their "love" is making me hate myself?


I'm going to die, because I'm fat. There, that's something about me I can accept. Thanks mom.

Fuck, REALLY?

She’s already disappointed in me.
I made the mistake about 15 minutes ago of going downstairs to watch tv. I went to the front room, because she was in the back (on the phone). I’m there for about 3 minutes and she’s creeping her way over, standing in the doorway, asking me “What? Do you want to go back there?” I say no, I’m fine where I am. “Are you suuure?” Yes, I assure her, a tv’s a tv, I don’t really care where I am. I’ve been flipping channels this entire time, I had been watching some cartoon on YTV, but I’ve learned to change the channel when she comes in, or else I get a round of tsk’ing. So I’m flipping. And she beings her form of “German Flipping Out,” eg. Questioning me about why I’m not eating. It’s 7:46pm, and as noted before at some point in my rambling on this blog, she eats specifically and precisely at 5:30pm, whether she’s hungry or not. She had hollered up the stairs at 5:30, asking what I wanted for supper. I had told her I wasn’t hungry and in the end I can make my own dinner. She did her whole “Come oooooon” in frustration thing as usual, and I just repeated my stand.

So I was flipping channels, and she was food-flipping-out. I told her that I can make my own food, that, reminder, I had been doing so these past two weeks. I told her that I’m not hungry (I ate breakfast/lunch at 3:30, really) and that when I am, I’ll make something. I then told her, again, that if I’m not hungry, I don’t eat. That while she was away, some nights I didn’t eat until well after 8, 8:30 – mostly because I just forgot about the whole “supper” thing.
She then pulls out her most irritating of cards: She tells me that that is why I get headaches. With her, it always comes back to my eating. My headaches, in her muddled mess of a head, are obviously the result of my eating. She did the same last night, when she came home. She saw a banana on the counter, did the “And you didn’t eat the banana?!?! What did you eat? Junk?!” To which I responded that since I’m clearly alive and scurvy-free, I had obviously been eating fruits and veg, which I had been by the way. And, again, last night, she told me that my not eating her food at her scheduled time was obviously the cause of my migraines. I spazzed last night.

So just now, as she started on her “that’s why you have headaches!” tirade, now coupled with her new “well that’s not nice. I have to eat alone now” guilt trip, I turned off the tv, told her “FINE. I’ll eat WHATEVER you make WHENEVER you want. FINE!” to which she said “Well, I already ate, so it’s too late...” to which I turned off the light, said forcefully “I KNOW” and stomped in to the bathroom to wash my hair.

Like, seriously? Again? Still? Again and still?!
“I have to eat alone now”?!?!?! What?! What, was she holding banquets with all the fucking idiotic buffoons from this side of the family when I was gone during Christmas? What about when I’m gone during the summer? And, really, fuck it! You ate alone YEARS before I came to live here, and next year, SUR-FUCKING-PRISE, I’m not setting one foot back into this onion and cabbage reeking hellhole so, SORRY GERMAN NAZI, you’ll be eating ALONE!

Truth is, now I am getting hungry, but I’m just going to ignore it.
I may be trying to conquer my body weight issues, I may be trying and TRYING to come to terms with my “flabulous” flab in the face of this horribly unjust and cruel world, but tonight? Tonight I’m fat. “Fat” as in lardy, huge, monstrous, grotesque, gross, ugly, obese, chunky and all the other euphemisms. Tonight, I’m not eating.

Oh, and for the record, if I hear one more tale of the eggs, omelettes, coffee and how all the good people are German, and how her pilot was German, and how the pilot that safely landed the plane in the river had German blood in him, I am going to freak!

Her Return from "Cooba"

So tomorrow (technically today) at some point during the day (neither my mother nor I know the time), my grandmother comes back from her 2 week trip to Cuba. Or, as she mangles it, "Cooba".
I've been free this entire 2 weeks. I've been free to do my own grocery shopping, my own laundry, make my own meals, plan my own day around me and not around a neurotic German witch. I will admit, I missed quite a few classes these past two weeks; some because of legitimate migraines, others because, well, the thought of waking up at 7:30am to go to a 2 hour German History lecture made absolutely no sense to me at 5am when I woke up, thirsty and groggy.
It's been absolute bliss.
I'm now 22 years old, and yet if she thinks I'm not awake yet at 9:30am on a Monday morning (because she doesn't hear me running around upstairs), she will honestly start hollering up the stairs, demanding for me to bring down my laundry so she can wash it, ask-yelling why I'm not up yet. This past Monday, I turned off my alarm, and fell back to sleep for another 2 hours. Bliss.

I had my moments of boredom, but I have those all the time. I had my moments of loneliness, but again, I have those all the time. I have also had my moments of fear, when it's 2am and the house rumbles and it takes me a solid 30 minutes to reassure myself that it was just the snowplow going by outside that did it, and not some hooligan breaking in.

But it was freedom. Safe freedom. "Safe" because in the end I only had to pay for my food, not any other bills. "Safe" because my mom and sister came down on the weekend to abate some of the loneliness. "Safe" because I knew that I could take those 2 weeks to relax without any real, dangerous consequences. I could sit in the back room and eat popcorn while watching X-Men at 1 in the morning on a Friday and not care if the volume was turned up too much or if I had left the window open in the kitchen too long because I didn't even open the window this time (whenever I make popcorn, she claims that the smell is going to kill her [like how cold water will kill you, or walking outside without a wool hat on in slightly below freezing temperatures will kill you], so I have to make sure the door to her room is closed, and the kitchen door is closed, and the other kitchen door (the one that leads to the front room) is closed, and that the window is open. It's too much hassle, so I just don't eat popcorn anymore), and I don't have to groan at the knowledge that the next morning I'll be asked the same question every time I eat popcorn: "What? Can't you go to the toilet after you eat that?!" because she's freakishly obsessed with my bowel movements.

It was a safe and re-affirming freedom.
And now it's over.
I think this is one of the most depressing nights every year: the night before I know she'll be home.

And as soon as she get's home, it will be time for "Stories from Cuba!" or "Complaints from Cuba that I Hear Every Single Year".

- The airport was horrible. She hates the airport. She's never going again.
- The plane was horrible. It was too loud, too cold, too stuffy. She hates the plane. She's never going again.
- They didn't give them food |or| the food they gave was horrible, she didn't eat it. She's never going again.
- The airport in Cuba was a mess. She hates airports. She's never going again.
- They had to go to the farm. She had to eat their food. She doesn't trust "poor people" food. She only ate tomatoes and drank no water. They had a skinny dog. They're poor, she hates it. Why do they always have to go? She hates it. She's never going again.
- They went to mass. Only good part of the trip.
- There were so many Germans at the resort. She almost sounds like she hates her own "people".
- There were not enough chairs. They played bingo. She hates bingo. She's never going again.
- They always wanted to go for walks - she can't walk far anymore, so it was horrible |or| No one wanted to walk with her, so they just sat around. It was boring. She's never going again.
- She burnt in the sun and doesn't understand why. It's not her fault. Nope, even though she doesn't put any sunblock on and sits in the sun, roasting like a lobster for the entire time. Her lips burnt, again. She hate's it. She's never going again.
- She ate omelets and mango's and had "strong coffee" (espresso, she just doesn't want to admit it, but my great-aunt and uncle who go with her will gladly say it was espresso). She only liked the food. The eggs the eggs the eggs and the omelets...over and over and over again.
- German people German people German people...over and over and over again.
- The flight back was horrible. They didn't give them food |or| the food they gave was horrible, she didn't eat it. She's never going again.
- The eggs omelets and mango's.
- The farm and poor people. She hates it.
- Germans.

Aaaaand repeat.
Summary: She's never going again.
And yet, every year, she goes. And every year, I have to hear ALL about it.
And then, in the span of one, maybe two days, the entire house reeks of onion and cabbage again. And I awaken to the sound of her marching around at 7 in the morning.

Leaving here is the one upside to the end of this chaotic year.

News about migrains! :D

So, news!

I have finally and concretely discovered what causes my daily tension migraines!!!
Alas, there is no cure.
Three hints: it’s old, wrinkly, and has a queer obsession with onions.

Any guesses…

Three more seconds…

…

…

…

THAT’S RIGHT! My grandmother!
Don’t believe me?! HERE’S PROOF!

This morning, despite having an essay due, I was in a pretty damn good mood.

I almost did the splits while walking to the bus stop because of the ice, but I actually laughed it off. LAUGHED IT OFF, even though I usually would have been embarrassed beyond belief and would have grumbled and been angry for the rest of the day. I was happy.

I get to class, and Doctor Reynard was unbelievably hilarious! Talking about how alchemists helped aid I the advancement of science because they found out when chemicals didn’t go well together when their houses of faces blew up. Stuff like that. Hilarious.

So I hand in my essay, walk with my friend to the midway point where she heads off to the library and I start the trek up the hill to my school. I had bought the newest Coheed and Cambria cd this past weekend (late, I know) so I was all singing along (in my head) to the music and sliding on ice through the parking lot and being awesome. ‘Cause that’s what I do on my Monday, Tuesday and Thursday hikes up the hill: be awesome.
So I sat in front of my classroom for the hour and a half before class started. I did some work for tomorrow, then chatted with my friend Steph, then Raeanne showed up and I chatted with her. Then class began, and it was two presentations which were “not testable”, so we didn’t have to take notes.
So I sat there and enjoyed myself.
After class, I walked down the hill, head bopping to the music, caught the bus and walked the block-ish from the bus stop to the house.
All fine and dandy.
I walk in the door, and she starts harassing me to “drink your milk” (soy milk), to “just drink it” even though I wasn’t thirsty at all. So I head to the washroom as she calls after me to eat something because “if you don’t eat, you don’t learn” etc.
In the washroom.
Look out window.
See two pairs of pants on the back porch railings.
Look closer and realize that I haven’t worn either of them in a week.
Nay, one of them I haven’t worn since before Christmas.
I leave the washroom and tell her the above. She then says she was just “airing” them out. I go and snatch them, now covered in snow and frozen stiff.
She’s standing just inside the door, and as soon as I close the door she start yelling about “why you just throw things on the ground?!” so I yell back “because I’ve been writing 5000 word essays and don’t have time to pick stuff up right now”.

Every and all of my pants are on rotation. Well, other than the ones I hadn’t worn since Christmas, they’re my “fancy presentation” pants, the ones I wear only for presentations. So, naturally, with my stress level a 17 on a scale of 1 to 10, my room is a disaster. Clothes and books are piled up EVERYWHERE.
So I start going up stairs and yell back down “you’re not supposed to go up here anyways, GOD!”
She’s done a number on this room, let me tell you. The piles of clothes are gone. Great, right? Not really, because they’re not in the drawers, nor in the closet, so that means she’s washed them. Even if they had only been worn once, or not at all, she doesn’t care. If it’s folded on the bed, she’ll take it and deem it laundry because she’s fucking crazy.
And I think of the wasted water. And the fact that she hand-scrubs the underarms to DEATH so now 90% of my black shirts are un-wearable in public because, really, who wants a black shirt with white armpits? And they are white. Same with my used-to-be-favorite purple, long-sleeved shirt. White. And then she’ll lecture me on not putting my clothes in my laundry basket, and how she had to walk up and down the stairs and the basement steps and how she “didn’t know what was wash and what was what”, even though she really DIDN’T have to do all that shit.

And now I have a migraine. My head is pounding in that same spot as always: the left temple. Making my eye water and hurt to close, blink, move.
I have shit due/to do for tomorrow. I can’t do it if her harassment gives me these migraines, daily.
Like I said, no cure.

But next year? Oh, next year I’ll live in the hospice across town, but I’m not living here again. I can’t take the daily migraines. I seriously think they’re making me go a little loopy.
No doubt about it.
I’m not the same “Kristen” I used to be. I’ve changed, for the worse.
Daily migraines can do that to a person, I suppose.