Everything Pisses On Me

My sister wrote an e-mail at 5:10 that the powerwasher I packed for her wasn’t working.  She told me that her friend, the abusive one, wouldn’t be there tonight, so after I served my parents supper,  I went to her house, carrying a sack of food.

She wasn’t there, which was fine, but when I tried to find the powerwasher to work on it, the trigger assembly wasn’t there.  I called her cell and she told me it was in the car with her, and she wouldn’t be back until 8:00, after yoga.

Fine, fine, fine, fine.  I go back to my parents house and see the note that bitch friend sent to me years after I ceased contact with her, a joke about a husband who demands too much with a punchline where the wife tells him she will kill him in a witty way — “the undertaker will dress you.”

The abuser shows up in the morning, so I have to work tonight, no matter how bad my teeth are.

I’m back just after 8, and she finally pulls in about 8:30.  I grab the handle out of her car and go to set up the machine in pitch blackness, slipping on the clay and being soaked. 

Finally I get it together and see the problem.  I pull it apart, and the machine squirts water all over me.

“It’s pissing on you,” she laughs.

“Everything pisses on me,” I reply.

It’s at that point she wants to tell me what the procedure is for bankrupcy.  I’m not listening, I don’t have the emotional strength, as I told her two weeks ago as we waited for her friend to arrive with the junk scooter I had to manage for my mother.

She sees this, so I ask her “Do you really think this is the best time to talk about this?”

It’s the best time for her so she goes on, and I get more and more boiling.

Doesn’t she understand what I clearly have told her?  I don’t need help doing the paperwork, I need help getting by my emotions.  I have accepted my life as being over, and that’s easier and better for me.  Droning on with no hope is worse than dying, at least to me.

But no, no, no.  She sees I am upset and stressed and goes ahead, and then when I don’t act nice, I am blamed for not accepting help.  She doesn’t remember what I said, because she can’t hear it.

Same when I get back to parents.  I am just an asshole for rejecting help.  They have no need to deal with my emotions, to help with that, I have to suck it up.

Everything pisses on me.   I tell that to my sister, and then I feel her piss on me again, and when I don’t take it like manna, I am seen as ungrateful shit.

“My death will be pleasant and appropriate.”  I find myself saying that often.

I can’t figure out a way to bloom, to return the gift, and I am way too frayed from a half-century trying.

But damnit, just be normal and do what we want.

5 thoughts on “Everything Pisses On Me”

  1. Yes, my sister knows about this blog.

    No, I don’t believe she reads it regularly.

    There is no room for my emotions and my pain in anyone else’s life. 

    Pretty strong meat there from Sam Peckinpah. . .” as they say.

    I have two choices: swallow it or have it erased.

    And yes, that is eight months worth of moustache; thank you for noticing.

  2. Overheard my mother telling a friend that “we had a nice explosion last night, but at least it’s better controlled than before. It still gets me upset, though. . .”

    They got about a minute and a half of me expressing emotion. My sister even got a warning, a nice clear one that now wasn’t a good time to press me. I always steel up first, trying to slip it by.

    But warnings, short durations, high discipline, whatever, it doesn’t count in this family. I’m the one who explodes, and that makes me the sick one, according to lore.

    Well, I have had that role for over half a century. Why stop now?

    In my family, it’s my experience that when content is delivered with an emotional tone, the content is ignored and only the tone is considered, usually as being unreasonable and/or to be avoided.

    And when content is delivered without an emotional tone, any emotional content is ignored.

    Tough being a femme under that structure.

  3. My sister and I were standing in the rain at my nephew’s JV soccer game.

    They were talking about how he felt, and I reminded him of two points.

    “You told the doctor you thought that your blood pressure medicine seemed to help with the palpatations you can get from thyroxin,” I said

    “That’s just what I thought,” he sneered back at me. “I don’t know that’s right.”

    “The doctor said that thyroxin is long lasting in the body, that it takes a while to get out of your system.”

    “I know that. Don’t you think I know that? I know my own body!” he replied.

    My sister saw him snap back at me, knowing that I was being tender and kind. Part of the snapping may have been the underlying emotions that echoed from my distress of the night before, the challenge that when I did something that made him feel uncomfortable it rippled back for days.

    But it’s my job to be tender and gracious with the emotions of others as they hurt.   

    Since I’m the sick one, though, others don’t feel the same obligation or have the same skill to read my emotions when they have something to say.

    I am expected to be able to walk in their shoes and see though their eyes to be appropriate and compassionate, but since I am the queer, they don’t feel expected to walk in my shoes or see though my eyes. 

    Yes, I know that might be hard for anyone to do, but being the caretaker without being taken care of feels like I am only in service to others wishes, rather than being in service to my own calling, my own bliss.

  4. The ripples continue.

    This morning my father offering my services to assemble her Ikea furniture, but acknowledging that she “might not feel good about me.”

    “Yeah,” she said cautiously over the phone, “I still have to deal with that.”

    Any wonder why I hold stress and concern over doing anything bigger and bolder that might make wider ripples, more difficult to tread?

    I looked at the free automated blood pressure chair by the pharmacy in Target, and thought for a second, but if I knew, what the hell could I do about it anyway?

    = = = = = = = = = = = =

    Sister on phone to parents: “My friend has a problem you might relate to.  Her son is having trouble focusing at school, but he his bright and alert, listening to NPR, drawing diagrams of solutions and filling the dinner table with talk.”

    Mother: “Well, I hope she has better luck than I did.”

  5. Went to help my sister with her new Ikea furniture.

    Her “functional alcoholic” pal, her old high school boyfriend was there. he spent some time lecturing us about our obligation to our parents.

    Later, as I was trying to leave, he was talking about some of his challenges. Of course, he was drunk, so he wasn’t really listening, and as I tried to leave, he kept pushing in.

    Eventually, it was 12:40 AM, and he decided to ask me if I thought it would be best for everyone if I went though a bankruptcy. Everybody? Everybody?

    I left, having morning calls, but when I got back to my parents house I found wet spots on my new shoes.

    You see, he didn’t want me to get away, so he was just pissing where he stood in the driveway, and not once but multiple times.

    It is true.

    Everything pisses on me.

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