It seems like no matter how intelligent, wise, ahead-of-everyone you are, some things are just timed, and they will happen at the certain age no matter what you are or where you are. A stupid scene two months ago unlocked the Pandora’s box of some pent-up crap and now I kind of think, like a monster I am, that if I didn’t have to speak to my mother ever again I’ll be fine.
It’s not that I’ve been this blind or that she was this horrible. No, I knew, I understood, I enabled, I let her, it wasn’t that big of a secret to anyone, but it was like all that time I just coped as if I was in the passenger seat of a moving car and I couldn’t do much, because we have to drive, right? I wish I could yell at her and tell her every petty and not-so-petty thing, but I just don’t do that. I don’t think I have ever properly yelled at anyone ever, really.
(I used to be very proud of that).
So it is official, the father-son nonsense is out because the mother-daughter shit is in. No matter what happens next, it will just never be the same, and I feel like I lost someone.
As one thing leads to another my entire history unfolded (you never really think about how things came to be the way they are until you do) and now I am in a quite a state, for the first time ever so myself, thinking of all the things that made me and so very lost with all the opportunities. It seems like such a simple thing, that thought - you can do anything you want - well, to some people perhaps, but it is blinding me. In combo with the ever-present anxiety I feel like I might spontaneously cease to exist any moment. Anxiety attacks jump at me in the weirdest moments - a week ago I almost had one in the yoga class because my stupid body confused some hormones or something. (None of the hormones in my body ever really worked like they were supposed to - shitty domino effect from that thyroid of mine, idk).
If you cross off the fragile state of reborn mind, things are GOOD. My dog is doing well and we bought an apartment (I mean, there is a mortgage, but we should be done with that in a very reasonable time, especially if I ever get off my ass and do something lucrative, but yeah, it would work financially even if I stay right as I am and do nothing). Never really owned anything so that feels odd. Especially since it is in the nice Stalin-era building and almost everything about that apartment is just like I always wanted (I mean, it could be a bit bigger, but eh, there never really enough space for me). I do dread the move (oh god why do I own all this shit) and the renovation because while it seems we have the funds I just don’t know any company that could be trusted with that and I don’t want it half-assed, so that will be another thing completely and will probably take a few months.
2018 was overall odd and useless (like I did shit and traveled to places, but emotionally? fuck no), but its ending leaves me with hope. Idk if that’s health issues or mental thing but for some reason I can’t deal with the Nordic winter darkness this year and I can’t wait for the sun.
I tried to watch some shows and read some books but honestly, if there is a thing I am tired of in fiction, it is that hot take on “A woman can do anything! Like even be cold, shitty and violent! Like do…a…MURDER!”
Because why do some authors think it is so sensational, empowering, or what else. I mean, embracing the female rage, rebellion and imperfection are one thing but violence is mundane and horrible, and then again, it is so very mundane, and definitely not enough to make an interesting character. Everyone can be cold, shitty and violent, there is nothing sharp or new about it.
Being generally non-violent is one of the greatest thing about women as a collective, and honestly, I wish the authors who play into the “there were also female serial killers, duh, women are just as horrible, here is my badass heroine, SHE CAN DO HARM, you people” thing would just go and look at the flowers.
