Back in December I went to Florida to visit my parents. I never blogged about what happened there, because it was so outrageous (for my family) and too big to wrap my head around. I needed distance. I'm gotten that now. So let me take you back to the week before Christmas, when I had the Week of Hell.
First of all, everything I wrote on my other blog was true. I just left out a lot. A hell of a lot. Second of all, it was hell. It became clear to me that it was absolutely unhealthy for me to be there.
The plan was, I was going to Florida to help my parents get settled. They'd just moved into their new apartment a week earlier. My dad had already started his new job. We agreed that each morning I'd drive my dad to work, and then take my mother around town to run errands, show her where things are, help her set up the new place. Then I'd go pick my dad up from work. I figured I'd get together with a couple of friends, see my grandpa once or twice, and that's how the week would go. Oh, how very wrong I was.
My grandpa wanted to see me for dinner every night. He does not live near my parents, nor does he live near my dad's work, nor will he drive when it's dark. My father and I put gas in his car four times during the week I was there, from all the driving back and forth and all over. My grandpa was feeling his mortality and apparently thought this visit might be the last time he saw me before he died. But at no point did my grandpa ever SAY to me "Hey, I want to have dinner with you every night" but instead just called me repeatedly. Now if you know me, you know I L_O_V_E my grandpa, but this was so freaking frustrating. Driving all the way out to fetch my dad at work. Driving all the way home to fetch my mom at home. Driving all the way out to fetch my grandpa and his slut girlfriend at their place. Driving to dinner. Driving grandpa and the slut girlfriend back, then driving all the way home. You might ask why my mother couldn't come with me to fetch my dad at work, but I wouldn't be able to give you an answer, so don't bother. So there was that.
My father wanted the three of us (me, him, my mom) to sit down and discuss how it came to be that they wouldn't co-sign my lease on my new apartment for me. This was NOT a fun conversation. My mother has a terrible memory and is in denial. Oh yeah, and she's VERY stubborn. Hence, there's lots of lying when dealing with her. My dad and I backed her into a corner until she cried like a fucking baby. A big fat stupid baby who wouldn't co-sign on a lease. Not that I'm bitter about it. (And I'm not, really. I'm bitter that she lied about her reasons for not doing it.)
My parents fight with each other. A lot. No, you don't get it, A LOT. My mother is a martyr, and it makes people want to smack her. Really. Hard.
Right before my parents moved to their apartment, I told them that when I had moved, I put post-its on each cabinet listing what was inside them, so I wouldn't have to open six cabinets just to find the spoons. Both of my parents thought this was a brilliant idea and were in agreement that they'd so the same thing.
After I arrived in Florida, my father yelled at my mother that she'd been saying for a week she was going to do this, so she should do it already. So she did. In great detail. Lots of detail. More detail than was necessary, in my father's opinion. He thought the post-it's should say "Dishes" but my mother wrote "Salad plates, dinner plates, dessert bowls, etc."
This pissed off my father. He bitched about it to me. To my brother. To anyone who would listen. Then the post-its started falling off, onto the floor. My mother bangs doors, drawers and cabinets but doesn't realize that, and can't (put your drink down NOW) see over her fat stomach to see the floor, so she didn't know she was causing post-its to fall to the floor.
Now my father was even more furious. First the post-its had too much information on them, then they started falling on the floor! This was outrageous to him. After he bitched a second time about it, I spoke with my brother. Why can't he just rewrite them if he doesn't like how they're written? And what is he so busy doing that he can't take scotch tape and tape them so they'll stick?
Two of many unanswered questions.
My father yells at my mother for so many things. At some point I think I started trying to mentally block all the yelling but the post-it issue sticks out to me, as does the onion issue. Apparently my mother slices an onion the wrong way, according to my father. No, they weren't having any company. No there's no onion contest. It was just for them, for their salads.
I didn't realize how much the yelling and tension bother me. I flew to Florida on a red-eye, arriving on a Sunday morning. So I showered and changed my clothes the Saturday of my flight. My mother did not want to go running errands with me. Or at least, if she did, she didn't act like it, by being ready to go or listing the places she wanted to go to or anything. So each morning after dropping my father off at work, I'd drive back to their apartment and after checking e-mail, go lay down and take a nap. A nap that lasted almost all day, until it was time to start the evening driving duties.
Ummm.... apparently it's REALLY easy to slide back into depression. I didn't shower or change my clothes until Wednesday. And if you know me, you know I'm a bit anal about things like being clean. I kept putting off getting together with friends, because I couldn't pull my shit together enough to deal with people. And by "pull my shit together" I think we all know I mean "shower and put on clean clothes."
My dad had that Friday off from work, and we were talking about going to Target, then going to the beach, and then going to see a movie. I'd been wanting to see the movie all week. When I'd arrived in Florida, I'd announced to my parents the goals I had for the week, and seeing this movie was one of them. (Pursuit of Happyness. I know, not even a great movie. But I was on vacation dammit, and this was what would make me happy).
Oh yeah. Before I go any further, let's talk about my mother's physical capabilities. She can barely walk. Like, walking from a parking lot to a store is too much for her. When she goes food shopping, my mother leans heavily on the shopping cart. Standing is difficult too. So is getting up from sitting. That often takes her two or three tries.
So my dad, gentleman that he is, always says to my mom "Do you want me to drop you off at the front?", offering to park the car and meet her inside of wherever they're going. He also always offers to go fetch the car and drive to the front of the store to pick her up. It's nice of him. Truly.
My mother though, can't always bring herself to accept this offer gracefully (due to her denial about her inability to walk), and often responds with, "If you want". We are all disgusted with my mother's efforts to keep herself entrenched in her denial.
So on that Friday, everywhere my mother went, my father followed and yelled at her for whatever she was doing, however she was doing it. You might feel bad for my mother. Sometimes I do too. But then you'd ask yourself, "Why doesn't she smack his shit down? Why doesn't she say to him, 'You know, in the scheme of life, how I cut this fucking onion or whether I put the remaining tomato in a big ziplock or a snack size REALLY doesn't matter, so lay the fuck off. If it bothers you THAT much, then YOU switch it, and then come talk to me about it calmly. Otherwise shut the fuck up."
(Not that I really believe married people should speak to each other like that. Because I don't. But I also would like to think that when I'm married, I won't let my husband treat me like shit. What do I know, maybe that's the way it's done. Maybe I'm not married because I don't give off the vibe that marrying me will let a man emotionally abuse me."
So we're all walking out the door to Target, and something happens and my father gets pissed at my mother. He says we should go without him. Fine. He can stay home and sulk like a big fat fucking baby, I'm fine with that. We're two feet from the car when my mother realizes my father isn't coming, and she decides not to come either. Fuck. We were going to Target for THEM, not me. So I go back in and announce my plans to go to the beach, then come home to pick them up and go see the movie. I do that.
My father drives to the movie theatre, and in the parking lot, asks my mother if she wants to be dropped off in front. "If you want to." They start arguing. He says, "I'll ask you again" and asks her again. "Whatever you want is fine."
This is when my father snaps. He slams on the gas and we shoot forward. Then he slams on the break and gives me whiplash, then SCREAMS at my mother "NOW CAN YOU ANSWER ME?"
And that's when I lose it. I have spent days being in the presence of this tension, of their fighting, their cruelty to each other, and I just cannot. take. it. any. more.
I start crying hysterically (I shit you not, I can't remember the last time I cried this hard in my entire life) and hyperventilating and scream-cry "Please stop the car, I need to get out. Please let me out. I can't take this anymore." All that between this weird screaming-crying thing I can't get control of.
Just for those of you who don't know me, I joke around about being dramatic, but I'm really NOT a drama queen. Really.
My father stops the car in the parking lot and I get out. I walk away from the car and sit down on the cement and continue crying. After a few minutes my mother comes and stands over me. She asks me if my body is physically hurt. I shake my head no (my neck didn't start hurting until the next day), and then she tells me I need to get up, there are ants on the ground.
I stand up, still crying so hard I can't open my eyes and see her. She tries to hug me, but in the midst of my upsetness, I'm furious at her for being an asshole, for not being able to accept a favor gracefully. She asks me what I want to do. I want to go see my fucking movie.
I walk over to the car and my father rolls down his window. "Will you come with us to the movie?" He says yes. I pay for my parents, we watch the movie, we go home in silence. Oh, except for when my father is fetching the car and I'm waiting with my mother. The car rolls up and I step off the curb to go get in. My mother says "Oh, okay" and follows me, indicating her displeasure that I didn't open her car door for her. Fuck you. I want to give you NOTHING. N-O-T-H-I-N-G
We get home, and of course, I go in the bedroom and lay down on the bed and cry and feel horribly alone. After a while my mother knocks on the door and comes to sit on the edge of the bed. Even in her apologies, she doesn't take ownership. "I'm sorry for whatever part I may have played in your being upset this afternoon." That's not good enough.
My parents are waiting for me - to see if I want to go out to dinner. I can't give an answer - I want their promise it won't happen again, that they won't scream at each other in public and embarrass me. They can't give me that. My father says "All I can do is apologize for my behavior today, and say that I haven't done that in a LONG time." He will not admit that he has a temper problem. That he needs (and has needed for years) anger management help.
We go out to dinner. Each of my parents speak to me, quite gently, like they're walking on eggshells, but barely speak to each other.
And that was Florida. And that is how it came to be that yesterday, when my mother called me at work to ask if I'll come to Florida for Passover, I told her that I don't foresee myself ever coming to Florida ever again. That there's no good reason for me to put myself in that horrible a position again. At which point she said she hopes to see me before she dies. Did you just roll your eyes? I did. I told her I hope to, also, and that she can come to San Francisco.
As I think about it, I think it would be like self-abuse really, to put myself in that environment. I told my brother about the phone call (he already knows about Florida) and we agreed that we'll do Passover either in SF or LA, wherever is easiest.
We also agreed neither of us will be going there again.
