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antisnotabug) wrote2020-06-22 10:34 pm
antisnotabug) wrote2020-06-22 10:34 pm
(no subject)
“Who would I be if my family could take care of themselves?”
Two nights ago, I couldn’t sleep. Facebook’s memory feature reminded me that on that day, two years ago, was the last time I’d ever see my little brother. I tried to will the thought out of my mind and go to sleep, but couldn’t. I cried for a while. And then I sat down at my computer and started to write the answer to this question. In the end, it was just a tirade about how my parents were bad at parenting, a place I could direct the anger I have for losing Dominic so early. Don’t think I actually answered the question.
Tonight, I was half asleep, my brain a jumbled mess of dozen of thoughts and half formed ideas. At some point, it occurred to me that the thoughts I was having involved me having accepted the idea that my oldest brother is dead. Jolted me out of my half-sleep state pretty quickly. I don’t think Nick is dead, except apparently there’s some part of me that does. I tried to will the thought out of my mind and sleep, couldn’t. Cried for a while. And now I’m back here. Because there’s a lot of ways I could answer this question, but in the end, there’s only one.
Like, I could say if my family had any shred of competency and could navigate the real world, I would be someone more confident. I didn’t get a lot of guidance out of them, either through them giving advice or watching the example they provided, so there was a lot I had to figure out on my own. Things I’m still figuring out, like how to cook, structure my finances, or find meaning in life. People can smell doubt on you, and that’s engraved in every fiber of my being.
I could say if my family wasn’t so hellbent on avoiding responsibility, I would be someone who can take on the world. I hate hard work. It either bores me to death, or terrifies me, or both. There’s a part of me that feels like I’ve done enough already to get to this point and survive and I shouldn’t have to do anymore. My reward should be kicking in now. That entitlement absolutely comes from my family, particularly the men. I tried to learn from it, to use it as an example of what not to be. I was only partially successful. I don’t use others like my parents and Nick did/do. Certainly not a thief like them. But there’s a reason I’m 30 and only in a studio, in a completely dead end job, not remotely satisfied with my life and who I am. I don’t know that an Antonelli has ever known satisfaction. The exception might be my aunt, and she had to cut everyone out first.
I could say if my family was able to make a life they were proud of, they wouldn’t have felt the need to punch down and make fun of me for things like my weight, sloppiness, and a perceived lack of common sense. Maybe I wouldn’t be so horribly insecure about my intelligence, and how my appearance and the appearance of my home relates to that.
But you know, there’s only so much I can blame on my family. There’s a point where I have to realize I am my own person, and these problems exist in my mind only. There should be a point where I can fix these, and stop being so damn sensitive.
The problem is, I’m a project that requires a hell of a lot of work, and I’m tired. Of course I am, I can’t sleep. I apparently have a running commentary in the back of my mind of what’s going on with my family at any given second. Sometimes I’ll be cooking, and then have to wonder if my mom is going to die soon with her kidney condition. I’ll be walking around the city, then have to do a double take because I think I just saw Nick. I see something about sports, I think about my dad squandering money. A friend will ask about Tony, and I have to debate whether or not I tell them he has cancer. There’s never anything good going on with my family anymore. No promotions, no charming outings, nothing that other families have. The best I can usually do is “Oh, x is not in the hospital right now, that’s good.” (‘X’ because it could literally be any one of them: mom with her kidneys, Tony with his cancer, dad with his 3 heart attacks and insistence on still smoking.) I put more than a second of thought into them, and immediately I’m miserable too. Because I love them, I don’t want them to be so unhappy. And I can’t fix it. I can’t get Nick home. I can’t bring Dominic back. I can’t cure Tony, and I can’t give my parents a boatload of money to get their lives back. But all of these, in one way or another, leads back to the fact that my family can’t take care of itself. Nick never got the help he needed, mom and dad ran down south to avoid taxes and brought all of their misery on themselves. The only thing I can’t blame them for is Tony’s cancer, and even then, I most certainly can blame them for not getting Tony health insurance. If my family could take care of themselves, more than anything, I would still be someone with problems, but I would be someone who could sleep. I would be someone who wasn’t constantly worried, and didn’t feel constantly guilty. I would be someone who wasn’t so goddamn broken.
Two nights ago, I couldn’t sleep. Facebook’s memory feature reminded me that on that day, two years ago, was the last time I’d ever see my little brother. I tried to will the thought out of my mind and go to sleep, but couldn’t. I cried for a while. And then I sat down at my computer and started to write the answer to this question. In the end, it was just a tirade about how my parents were bad at parenting, a place I could direct the anger I have for losing Dominic so early. Don’t think I actually answered the question.
Tonight, I was half asleep, my brain a jumbled mess of dozen of thoughts and half formed ideas. At some point, it occurred to me that the thoughts I was having involved me having accepted the idea that my oldest brother is dead. Jolted me out of my half-sleep state pretty quickly. I don’t think Nick is dead, except apparently there’s some part of me that does. I tried to will the thought out of my mind and sleep, couldn’t. Cried for a while. And now I’m back here. Because there’s a lot of ways I could answer this question, but in the end, there’s only one.
Like, I could say if my family had any shred of competency and could navigate the real world, I would be someone more confident. I didn’t get a lot of guidance out of them, either through them giving advice or watching the example they provided, so there was a lot I had to figure out on my own. Things I’m still figuring out, like how to cook, structure my finances, or find meaning in life. People can smell doubt on you, and that’s engraved in every fiber of my being.
I could say if my family wasn’t so hellbent on avoiding responsibility, I would be someone who can take on the world. I hate hard work. It either bores me to death, or terrifies me, or both. There’s a part of me that feels like I’ve done enough already to get to this point and survive and I shouldn’t have to do anymore. My reward should be kicking in now. That entitlement absolutely comes from my family, particularly the men. I tried to learn from it, to use it as an example of what not to be. I was only partially successful. I don’t use others like my parents and Nick did/do. Certainly not a thief like them. But there’s a reason I’m 30 and only in a studio, in a completely dead end job, not remotely satisfied with my life and who I am. I don’t know that an Antonelli has ever known satisfaction. The exception might be my aunt, and she had to cut everyone out first.
I could say if my family was able to make a life they were proud of, they wouldn’t have felt the need to punch down and make fun of me for things like my weight, sloppiness, and a perceived lack of common sense. Maybe I wouldn’t be so horribly insecure about my intelligence, and how my appearance and the appearance of my home relates to that.
But you know, there’s only so much I can blame on my family. There’s a point where I have to realize I am my own person, and these problems exist in my mind only. There should be a point where I can fix these, and stop being so damn sensitive.
The problem is, I’m a project that requires a hell of a lot of work, and I’m tired. Of course I am, I can’t sleep. I apparently have a running commentary in the back of my mind of what’s going on with my family at any given second. Sometimes I’ll be cooking, and then have to wonder if my mom is going to die soon with her kidney condition. I’ll be walking around the city, then have to do a double take because I think I just saw Nick. I see something about sports, I think about my dad squandering money. A friend will ask about Tony, and I have to debate whether or not I tell them he has cancer. There’s never anything good going on with my family anymore. No promotions, no charming outings, nothing that other families have. The best I can usually do is “Oh, x is not in the hospital right now, that’s good.” (‘X’ because it could literally be any one of them: mom with her kidneys, Tony with his cancer, dad with his 3 heart attacks and insistence on still smoking.) I put more than a second of thought into them, and immediately I’m miserable too. Because I love them, I don’t want them to be so unhappy. And I can’t fix it. I can’t get Nick home. I can’t bring Dominic back. I can’t cure Tony, and I can’t give my parents a boatload of money to get their lives back. But all of these, in one way or another, leads back to the fact that my family can’t take care of itself. Nick never got the help he needed, mom and dad ran down south to avoid taxes and brought all of their misery on themselves. The only thing I can’t blame them for is Tony’s cancer, and even then, I most certainly can blame them for not getting Tony health insurance. If my family could take care of themselves, more than anything, I would still be someone with problems, but I would be someone who could sleep. I would be someone who wasn’t constantly worried, and didn’t feel constantly guilty. I would be someone who wasn’t so goddamn broken.