My mom has started seriously dating a cousin of my Dad's who is an alcoholic, a gambling addict, and a drug addict; he has no job and lives in a trailer in Wayne County. Oh, and he has an estranged daughter my age.
And Mom refuses to admit that ANY of the above is a problem because he tells her that he's "born again."
So far, two holidays have been ruined by confrontations: the day before Thanksgiving AND Christmas Eve we had intense hours-long discussions about it. Each time, I pleaded with her to back away, using every rhetorical flourish I could to convince her what a totally fucking BAD idea this is. And each time, she accused me of doubting the power of Jesus Christ to "heal" people.
How can I argue with Jesus?
Quite honestly, I'm angry and scared. And I'm not allowing this relationship to happen without fighting it. My next step? Driving to Rochester and staging a family intervention. After that? Confronting Vince. And then? Well, I don't know. I refuse to threaten to cut my mom off: that's a tactic she's all too familiar with. However, I don't know how else to get my message across: reason hasn't been working so well; neither has heartfelt emotion.
And so, one of the only people I have left in the world is going to deliberately betray me--and herself. She's essentially choosing this ASSHOLE over her only daughter.
This is why my depression has relapsed, just in time for the gloomiest months of the year and the beginning of the spring semester.
And I feel completely powerless to fight it.
Friday, December 28, 2007
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Tagged.
Jessica of Folk and Fairy (see link on the right) tagged me. Because talking about oneself is the ultimate self-indulgence, and because I just finished typing (and vomiting) for two weeks straight, I must oblige. While gorging myself with chocolate, my second-favorite indulgence, of course.
The rules:
Link to the person who tagged you and post the rules on your blog.
Share 7 random and/or weird things about yourself.
Tag 7 random people at the end of your post and include links to their blogs.
Let each person know that they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.
Here are seven random things about me. (Although, I kinda feel that this is redundant, since this blog is FILLED with random things about me.)
1. I become legitimately angry when people don't wear coats in the winter. Are they making some sort of statement by eschewing proper attire? Like, "I want to prove that women's bodies must be displayed not only in summer, but throughout the year! That's how much I love objectification!" Seriously, people. Dress for the weather.
2. Often I have more compassion for animals than people. Perhaps because they don't speak. And they're never under-dressed.
3. I hardly ever read a book chronologically, a quirk that irritates Mike endlessly. Usually I give the first and last chapters a skim; if I determine the book is good, I'll then proceed chronologically. If not, I will stop reading. If I have to read the book for class, I'll locate the sections that deal with a major character/theme and read only those.
4. I hardly ever read a book completely. Even if I love it, I'll still skip parts that don't seem important. I blame this on Dorrance Publishing and the hellish year I spent reading manuscripts there.
5. My last name is now Holohan. How random is THAT?!
6. I love domestic work that most women my age view as a chore/pastime of grandmas. This includes cooking, gardening, and sewing. Basically, I like making stuff. And then consuming it.
7. If I was EXPECTED to do any of those domestic activities, a la fifties housewife, they would immediately lose their charm. I only like grandma stuff because it seems kinda counter-cultural. I like to announce that instead of bar-hopping on Saturday night, I whipped up some bread pudding, ate it all myself, and then sewed myself a new bag. (See what I mean about consumption?) If I were actually living in the fifties, I'd be smoking Lucky Strikes, wearing leather pants, and driving a motorcycle, NOT sewing poodle skirts, cooking pot roast, and cultivating peony bushes like Mrs. Beaver.
M'kay, now I'm supposed to tag seven people. But because I'm not into rules, I'm not going to. And the whole "tagging" thing smacks of that '80s friendship bread phenomenon--you know, that jar of yeasty, goopy stuff your mom would tote home from church and then pass on to other unsuspecting acquaintances after she had baked several loaves of mysterious bread? Bizarre!
So, I'm approaching this version of tag the same way I approached tag during recess: great! I got tagged! now I get to sit down while everyone else runs around for another half hour.
Never fear, though: there will be plenty more self-indulgence here at marianne schmarianne in the future.
The rules:
Link to the person who tagged you and post the rules on your blog.
Share 7 random and/or weird things about yourself.
Tag 7 random people at the end of your post and include links to their blogs.
Let each person know that they have been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.
Here are seven random things about me. (Although, I kinda feel that this is redundant, since this blog is FILLED with random things about me.)
1. I become legitimately angry when people don't wear coats in the winter. Are they making some sort of statement by eschewing proper attire? Like, "I want to prove that women's bodies must be displayed not only in summer, but throughout the year! That's how much I love objectification!" Seriously, people. Dress for the weather.
2. Often I have more compassion for animals than people. Perhaps because they don't speak. And they're never under-dressed.
3. I hardly ever read a book chronologically, a quirk that irritates Mike endlessly. Usually I give the first and last chapters a skim; if I determine the book is good, I'll then proceed chronologically. If not, I will stop reading. If I have to read the book for class, I'll locate the sections that deal with a major character/theme and read only those.
4. I hardly ever read a book completely. Even if I love it, I'll still skip parts that don't seem important. I blame this on Dorrance Publishing and the hellish year I spent reading manuscripts there.
5. My last name is now Holohan. How random is THAT?!
6. I love domestic work that most women my age view as a chore/pastime of grandmas. This includes cooking, gardening, and sewing. Basically, I like making stuff. And then consuming it.
7. If I was EXPECTED to do any of those domestic activities, a la fifties housewife, they would immediately lose their charm. I only like grandma stuff because it seems kinda counter-cultural. I like to announce that instead of bar-hopping on Saturday night, I whipped up some bread pudding, ate it all myself, and then sewed myself a new bag. (See what I mean about consumption?) If I were actually living in the fifties, I'd be smoking Lucky Strikes, wearing leather pants, and driving a motorcycle, NOT sewing poodle skirts, cooking pot roast, and cultivating peony bushes like Mrs. Beaver.
M'kay, now I'm supposed to tag seven people. But because I'm not into rules, I'm not going to. And the whole "tagging" thing smacks of that '80s friendship bread phenomenon--you know, that jar of yeasty, goopy stuff your mom would tote home from church and then pass on to other unsuspecting acquaintances after she had baked several loaves of mysterious bread? Bizarre!
So, I'm approaching this version of tag the same way I approached tag during recess: great! I got tagged! now I get to sit down while everyone else runs around for another half hour.
Never fear, though: there will be plenty more self-indulgence here at marianne schmarianne in the future.
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
type, vomit. type type, vomit vomit. vomit.
In case you were wondering, that's what I've been up to these long, dark days of early December.
I'd forgotten, over my two year break from studenthood, how much I hate end-of-semester madness. You know, the feeling that you've worked your ass off all day and still have a grocery list of things to do. That centrifugal force has riveted you to the bed after you've drifted off, drooling on a book you were "reading." That you have so many ideas in your head that you will certainly explode or at least pass out from nervous exhaustion before you finish the damn paper. And, when it's all over, the feeling that your feverish effort has been for nothing, that you have not become a better person or helped anyone else to become a better person or really influenced the world in any positive way through your scholarly essays on Rebecca Harding Davis and Amy Lowell, which took many hours to research and write.
You know, THAT feeling.
I didn't overdo it, did I?
I'd forgotten, over my two year break from studenthood, how much I hate end-of-semester madness. You know, the feeling that you've worked your ass off all day and still have a grocery list of things to do. That centrifugal force has riveted you to the bed after you've drifted off, drooling on a book you were "reading." That you have so many ideas in your head that you will certainly explode or at least pass out from nervous exhaustion before you finish the damn paper. And, when it's all over, the feeling that your feverish effort has been for nothing, that you have not become a better person or helped anyone else to become a better person or really influenced the world in any positive way through your scholarly essays on Rebecca Harding Davis and Amy Lowell, which took many hours to research and write.
You know, THAT feeling.
I didn't overdo it, did I?
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