Door Crushing

I had dinner planned. My mother was drowsy — no going out for her today, I could tell. Of course, I couldn’t plan for that and take advantage of it, because she has no self monitoring, no commitment to plans.

It’s a beautiful day, though, and my father wanted to go out. He talked her into dinner at the drive in, about 3:45PM, around when I need to start cooking. I almost decided to cook anyway — I knew what was coming, but didn’t.

I’ve been hurting and groggy myself, not spending any time with myself/by myself. And I had just gone though an hour of trying to satisfy my mother with a hotel room in Montreal, tossing out choices and having her want something else, something different, something better, something cheaper, something, something, something that would finally make her happy.  This, of course, was a microcosm of like with her, a pushy bottom, never taking responsibility for her own happiness and waiting to someone to pull out out of her malaise.

It was 4:35 when my mother announced she wouldn’t go out. She was watching an Oprah where the one out of four women who is abused my men was telling her story, Oprah right and solicitous. These tales always heat me up, not just for the abuse, but for the ritualized sexist earnestness that goes on around them.

“I guess if someone tells you that you are stupid long enough, you begin to believe it,” Oprah said.

Damn fucking straight, I thought, though I knew that the kind of abuse I have gone though is not even visible to these people, too invisible to even be dismissed. I was called “stupid” until 8th grade, and for a year after that called “stupid ohtheshrinktoldusnottocallyouthat.” But I am male, and I am one of the abusers. Nice and comforting lines of abuse and pain.

And now, I have to work on short time to take care of someone while being battered again like this.

I started to slam dinner together. Needing to husk some corn, I opened the sliding door to the deck and stepped out, right into the screen door which was closed behind it. Bang, slam, dam, there goes the cheap contractor grade screen door, busted out.

I am upset and angry. It’s my fault, though, because it’s always my fault.

I went downstairs and told my father, hoping he would help me fix it. He didn’t have the energy or inclination to help right then.

So I remounted the door alone, chanting over and over again, “pleasekillmenow, pleasekillmenow, pleasekillmenow, pleasekillmenow.”

But I don’t get that either, so I set the table and wrote this down, knowing that there will be more to swallow, more to bear, more to make me sick.