CLXXVII. Friday Night Sweats & Saturday Night Fever make for Sunday Night Solace - 

  Excuse me, but have you ever tried this hummus before? 

 It was the first time I went outside all day and it was after 4 p.m. on a Saturday during perfect fall weather. The air was brisk, the sky clear, the sun rays falling universally so that one didn’t have to dodge an extremely cool patch, type of day. 

 The next day, Sunday, I interviewed someone for a story and it was amazing. I was content. I felt my old self emerge, completely drawn into the story and what my subject had to say. I left with a smile and entered into a car that was filled with tears. 

 It was Diwali. I didn’t light any diyas, not even a candle. I didn’t shower until that evening. I never went to temple. I ate something unmemorable. It torrentially rained. I neither distributed nor received any customary confections. There were no calls and no messages.  
It was like there was a death in the family. 

 To be honest, I felt deadened inside.  

 I didn’t want to celebrate. I did, but I didn’t. 

 I’ve lost my faith. I don’t remember the last time I went to temple or sang/listened to hymns. But I haven’t lost - I cannot pinpoint what it is. That is to say, I overheard my father say he would possibly go to a particularly sacred temple west of India. Growing up we had always planned to make that pilgrimage together, but I am not in the equation. I don’t care, but I do. It’s not like I’m healthy enough to make that trip regardless, but it is what it is.  

 I never was one to not want to live with my parents, but when I see people in their fifties thriving: wearing nice clothes, having to buy new things, working out, going outside even if just for work, eating a salad or sandwich but scowling if I ever mentioned doing any of that… it’s mentally exhausting feeling as though your Lindsay Lohan and everyday feels like a Freaky Friday. As  it is, I hate Fridays and the ensuing weekends in which I cannot go out or do anything for fear of my parents. I hate that I feel as though I am 50- not allowed to move around or pick up groceries, and it seems they’re in their twenties.  

 What child hates their parents for living their best?  
Not me.  
But I am pissed that I mentioned washing my hair and doing my nails at home yesterday, only to be convinced that I should put it off - again. And then the next morning, lo and behold, my mother washes her hair and does her nails before I wake up. I hate that they woke up earlier than me. I hate that I convinced myself that my body requires more rest and more time in bed- especially my throbbing right knee. 

 I hate that they manipulate me. 
I hate that I let them do it. I hate that everyone mentions good intentions but I don’t see it. 

 I hate that I sat down to dinner yesterday and caught her make a nasty upturned-lip smirk, confronted her, and then had to hear that I’m crazy and I’m making it up. I wasn’t. 

 But it’s so easy to tag the anorexic as crazy, loony. 

 Like this morning. All hell broke loose. They wanted to go out for bagels. They made that plan yesterday and I was happily not included in it. And then suddenly, I’m asked to go. More like, I’m forced to go, but I don’t want to go out for breakfast. I am full and usually don’t eat until later. They know this. I refuse and I’m once again labeled the anorexic. The crazy psycho person who needs help. 

 I want to be outdoors and leave this hellish house but that means going where they want to go: out to eat or shopping- car, indoors, car.  

 I hate that another beautiful day is gone. I hate that I can’t enjoy the outdoors. I hate everything about my life. 

 I’m writing all of this so that people can know. I want you to know what I am going through. 

 So now they’re staying at home. He’s not eating anything and she ate less than 150 calories’ worth of pie.  

 I would have rather them eat the more caloric bagels. I hate that I fake apologized so they could resume their normal plans of eating said bagels. I hate that they could care less. So here we go again. A weekend of comparisons.  
I hate weekends and I can’t shake it off. I hate that she told me it’s a long weekend for Veteran’s Day, so now she has off on Friday -again.  

 I hate that it’s only 8 am on Saturday.

CLXXVII. Friday Night Sweats & Saturday Night Fever make for Sunday Night Solace -

Excuse me, but have you ever tried this hummus before?

It was the first time I went outside all day and it was after 4 p.m. on a Saturday during perfect fall weather. The air was brisk, the sky clear, the sun rays falling universally so that one didn’t have to dodge an extremely cool patch, type of day.

The next day, Sunday, I interviewed someone for a story and it was amazing. I was content. I felt my old self emerge, completely drawn into the story and what my subject had to say. I left with a smile and entered into a car that was filled with tears.

It was Diwali. I didn’t light any diyas, not even a candle. I didn’t shower until that evening. I never went to temple. I ate something unmemorable. It torrentially rained. I neither distributed nor received any customary confections. There were no calls and no messages.
It was like there was a death in the family.

To be honest, I felt deadened inside.

I didn’t want to celebrate. I did, but I didn’t.

I’ve lost my faith. I don’t remember the last time I went to temple or sang/listened to hymns. But I haven’t lost - I cannot pinpoint what it is. That is to say, I overheard my father say he would possibly go to a particularly sacred temple west of India. Growing up we had always planned to make that pilgrimage together, but I am not in the equation. I don’t care, but I do. It’s not like I’m healthy enough to make that trip regardless, but it is what it is.

I never was one to not want to live with my parents, but when I see people in their fifties thriving: wearing nice clothes, having to buy new things, working out, going outside even if just for work, eating a salad or sandwich but scowling if I ever mentioned doing any of that… it’s mentally exhausting feeling as though your Lindsay Lohan and everyday feels like a Freaky Friday. As it is, I hate Fridays and the ensuing weekends in which I cannot go out or do anything for fear of my parents. I hate that I feel as though I am 50- not allowed to move around or pick up groceries, and it seems they’re in their twenties.

What child hates their parents for living their best?
Not me.
But I am pissed that I mentioned washing my hair and doing my nails at home yesterday, only to be convinced that I should put it off - again. And then the next morning, lo and behold, my mother washes her hair and does her nails before I wake up. I hate that they woke up earlier than me. I hate that I convinced myself that my body requires more rest and more time in bed- especially my throbbing right knee.

I hate that they manipulate me.
I hate that I let them do it. I hate that everyone mentions good intentions but I don’t see it.

I hate that I sat down to dinner yesterday and caught her make a nasty upturned-lip smirk, confronted her, and then had to hear that I’m crazy and I’m making it up. I wasn’t.

But it’s so easy to tag the anorexic as crazy, loony.

Like this morning. All hell broke loose. They wanted to go out for bagels. They made that plan yesterday and I was happily not included in it. And then suddenly, I’m asked to go. More like, I’m forced to go, but I don’t want to go out for breakfast. I am full and usually don’t eat until later. They know this. I refuse and I’m once again labeled the anorexic. The crazy psycho person who needs help.

I want to be outdoors and leave this hellish house but that means going where they want to go: out to eat or shopping- car, indoors, car.

I hate that another beautiful day is gone. I hate that I can’t enjoy the outdoors. I hate everything about my life.

I’m writing all of this so that people can know. I want you to know what I am going through.

So now they’re staying at home. He’s not eating anything and she ate less than 150 calories’ worth of pie.

I would have rather them eat the more caloric bagels. I hate that I fake apologized so they could resume their normal plans of eating said bagels. I hate that they could care less. So here we go again. A weekend of comparisons.
I hate weekends and I can’t shake it off. I hate that she told me it’s a long weekend for Veteran’s Day, so now she has off on Friday -again.

I hate that it’s only 8 am on Saturday.