Friday, 7 June 2013

The mental parentals

Last year I swore I wouldn't spend another summer at my parents' house. The simple fact is that being there, with them, puts me in a bad place. It depresses me, or maybe it just prompts me to depress myself. It's sad, but it's true. I spent two days there last week, and even 48 hours was enough to put me on the edge of a slight breakdown. I don't know exactly what it is about being around my parents that makes me feel so... insufficient. Maybe parents always make you feel a bit like a child.

For now, distance is the only solution. I love my parents, but I can't be around them. I'm still hauling myself back up the slope from the hideous depression of November-January, and I don't trust my ability to cope with the guilt-tripping and the ignorance and the lack of understanding or any desire to understand.

I'm being selfish, yeah. But right now I really have to do what is going to make me happy, because fuck knows I'm useless in every respect when I'm not.

And my dad can be disappointed all he wants, and my mum can guilt-trip me all she wants, but contrary to what they sometimes seem to think, I have got a life of my own and I'm doing whatever the fuck I like with it, and the reason they know so little about it is only partly because they would disapprove or not understand... it's mostly because they never bother to ask.

I know most of this is probably coming from me rather than them. But I think my insecurities are very much taking their form at the moment. So I'm keeping my distance. Because self-preservation may be selfish, but it's damn well preferable to self-destruction.

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