A few weeks ago, I celebrated my 23rd birthday. In just 23 years I feel like I have accomplished some many things. A year ago I earned a BA from a school that still holds my heart. At this school, I met people that will forever be my family. I was able to travel the world, and serve in really cool jobs that allow me to help people.
Shortly after graduation, I moved back home. I have now lived at home for a full year, and I can say with absolute certainty that it has been the worst year of my life.
My parents are functioning alcoholics. They would never admit that to you, or maybe even to themselves, but by the books, it is a fact. My parents have been alcoholics for as long as I can remember. Their drinking has destroyed their relationship with each other and with me, but we pretend like this isn’t true. We pretend like everything is perfect, until we don’t.
After such a big accomplishment, life after college should have been wonderful. I have now worked with a company that provides behavior therapy to kids with autism for almost a year (my anniversary is in June woo!!). My kids are my everything. They are my reason for waking up in the morning, and although I should not be so attached, I would do anything for them. My parents like to put me down for the work I do. They say I don’t make enough money. This is a true statement. I wish I made more money, but my two J’s are worth more than money. Fulfilling their treatment hours is not about earning money. It is about teaching them how to be people in a world that they don’t understand.
Quick back story on what’s taking place now; my parents are moving out. They have decided, without any real discussion, that they will be moving in with my grandma, and we will be taking over our house. Up until a few days ago, my mom was showing zero signs of actually wanting to move. In fact, she picked a fight with me that shattered both of us. She attacked me in every way possible, while I stood there, calm, knowing I had done nothing to evoke such anger.
This weeks fight is with my dad. Its nice to switch it up sometimes. I always like to be reminded that neither of my parents actually care about me. On Mothers Day, after venting to my sister about not being invited to mother’s day dinner at my grandma’s (that’s a whole other story), I saw a bill on the counter with my name written on it in bold letters. The bill had been sitting there for days, but it did not have my name on it, so I did not touch it. Upon opening it, I saw a DMV bill for hundreds of dollars. This bill was something my dad said he would take care of and simply give me a number of how much I needed to pay. Now months and hundreds of dollars in fees later, I am supposed to pay for his mistake. The best part of this being that he thinks I’m lying, and that I told him I already paid it. The way he treats me makes me want to throw things (which I did), and cry my eyes out (which I also did).
After a week of fighting with my mom, now I have to do the same thing with my dad. It never ends. They paint me as this horrible person who lies about everything, when I have done nothing to make them believe so. The alcohol warps their perception of the world. Because I am not supportive of their addictions, and because I do not like who they are when they drink, I am the outcast. It hurts. I wish it didn’t. I wish I didn’t care so much, because they don’t care about me. They are able to drown their feelings in alcohol, and I refuse to do that.
So I hurt. I long for an escape, and I pray that it comes soon. The sun is setting, and I pray that a new opportunity comes with its return.
Dear Diary 