show and tell
Doomed from the get-go.
You could say that.
A deaf/mute father (or might as well be)
A depressed/insane mother
A bi-polar/depressed sister
A fucking crazy ass/anti-social/sexually confused brother
Mix it together with a family history of drug/alchohol addictions, depression, and alzheimers and you have both sides of my family.
Believe it or not, we're the sane ones.
And so you ask me, "Hey Emily, how did you get so lucky? Not crazy and all."
Well I'll tell you this, I hide it extrememly well. Sure I've got a mild case of depression and I can't function in "regular" high school, and I break down a lot but I like to think of myself as the glue that holds my popsicle stick family together. The glue that runs away from her problems, and gets in her car and drives to the ocean when everyone is yelling. I have my own ways of being crazy, I guess.
I don't remember half of my childhood. Honestly, I can't remember. I guess my sister was really hard to deal with but I must have subconsciously blocked it out because I don't remember much.
I have a therapist, her name is Marylin. I usually see her every week/two weeks but she's on vacation so I wont see her until December 11th. And I'm okay with it. Before you judge me and tell me I'm lame for having a therapist, I will tell you that she is like the diary I never kept up with. Her job is to sit and listen to be complain, cry, lash out on my family, and just talk about me. For 55 minutes it is all about me. I'm not one to only talk about myself either, I'm usually the listener, so this is big.
I hate teams, troups, clubs and the like. I was never good at sports. Or I was and I didn't care enough. My siblings are the same. My sister says we weren't built for normal activities.
We paint, we read, we like fashion, we are into photography, we don't "do" the kinds of things that are usually encouraged. A little strange considering my dad was big with baseball and football, he was a fucking marine. I think a piece of him was left there. My uncle said when they were kids you couldn't shut my dad up. Now he barely talks to anyone except maybe his friends. I wonder if he wants more than us. I would. He had a messy family life growing up; alcoholic father, bi-polar mother, four other siblings, one room house, dry milk, mixed with the humidity of the summer and the biting cold of the winter (Michigan doesn't suit some people). He got out though, he went as far away as he could. And I don't think I can ever express to him how thankful I am for that decision he made 25 years ago. Maybe I could too. Up and go. They were pioneers coming to California with nothing but money from their day old marraige. Nineteen and hitched. Nineteen.
It's not all bad, despite my ramblings. I'm proud of my disfunctional family. Even if I do want to get away, I love every insane minute of it. They give me a story to tell.
You could say that.
A deaf/mute father (or might as well be)
A depressed/insane mother
A bi-polar/depressed sister
A fucking crazy ass/anti-social/sexually confused brother
Mix it together with a family history of drug/alchohol addictions, depression, and alzheimers and you have both sides of my family.
Believe it or not, we're the sane ones.
And so you ask me, "Hey Emily, how did you get so lucky? Not crazy and all."
Well I'll tell you this, I hide it extrememly well. Sure I've got a mild case of depression and I can't function in "regular" high school, and I break down a lot but I like to think of myself as the glue that holds my popsicle stick family together. The glue that runs away from her problems, and gets in her car and drives to the ocean when everyone is yelling. I have my own ways of being crazy, I guess.
I don't remember half of my childhood. Honestly, I can't remember. I guess my sister was really hard to deal with but I must have subconsciously blocked it out because I don't remember much.
I have a therapist, her name is Marylin. I usually see her every week/two weeks but she's on vacation so I wont see her until December 11th. And I'm okay with it. Before you judge me and tell me I'm lame for having a therapist, I will tell you that she is like the diary I never kept up with. Her job is to sit and listen to be complain, cry, lash out on my family, and just talk about me. For 55 minutes it is all about me. I'm not one to only talk about myself either, I'm usually the listener, so this is big.
I hate teams, troups, clubs and the like. I was never good at sports. Or I was and I didn't care enough. My siblings are the same. My sister says we weren't built for normal activities.
We paint, we read, we like fashion, we are into photography, we don't "do" the kinds of things that are usually encouraged. A little strange considering my dad was big with baseball and football, he was a fucking marine. I think a piece of him was left there. My uncle said when they were kids you couldn't shut my dad up. Now he barely talks to anyone except maybe his friends. I wonder if he wants more than us. I would. He had a messy family life growing up; alcoholic father, bi-polar mother, four other siblings, one room house, dry milk, mixed with the humidity of the summer and the biting cold of the winter (Michigan doesn't suit some people). He got out though, he went as far away as he could. And I don't think I can ever express to him how thankful I am for that decision he made 25 years ago. Maybe I could too. Up and go. They were pioneers coming to California with nothing but money from their day old marraige. Nineteen and hitched. Nineteen.
It's not all bad, despite my ramblings. I'm proud of my disfunctional family. Even if I do want to get away, I love every insane minute of it. They give me a story to tell.
posted by little_emily at 3:48 PM
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