Dancing in my Room

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.