dane.c (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} missmimesis) wrote,@ 2004-07-27 18:08:00 |
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home again
It's always hard to come home after being away, even harder after being away for a relatively long time, and even harder when you have to come home to a house constantly filled with the noise of family members arguing, yelling, even just talking. My mother has, quite literally, not stopped talking to me since the moment I walked in the door, except when I was asleep (but that was only until 7am - damn jetlag), and the subjects are fairly predictable: her recent trip to Nicaragua with the volunteer organization she helps run, and the general incompetence of everyone involved with it except herself, and the colonialist implications of tourism (but with an absolute refusal to recognize the colonialist implications of sending rich American teenagers to Central America for two weeks to teach people about healthcare with absolutely no qualifications); the mental and physical health problems of my sister, my dad, my aunt, my grandmother, my cousins, and assorted friends; the divorces and deaths and estrangements and other family drama/tragedies of various people we know.
She says, for about the tenth time in an hour: "It's pretty clear that [x person] suffers from some kind of serious depression. Some kind of chemical imbalance." Which is her explanation for just about any problem any person she knows is ever having.
I say: "Wow, well, I guess people aren't very happy in this world, are they?" And that gets me a lengthy speech on the couples she knows that are very happy with each other and everything else in their lives. Well, at least there's variety there. And at least she hasn't yelled at me yet about spending too much money. I'm sure that's coming soon.
So I'm sitting here on the couch, watching "Awesomely Bad Girls" on VH1 with my sister (good to be back to the trash TV, that's for sure!), and trying to figure out how to create some sort of livejournal documentation of my trip, mostly because I find myself already forgetting just about everything that happened. More to come.
I keep saying "I need to go home," meaning to Dane Street, which upsets my dad, and also upsets me when I realize that Dane Street is not my home anymore. Still, I can't wait to get back there, even if only as a visitor.
It's always hard to come home after being away, even harder after being away for a relatively long time, and even harder when you have to come home to a house constantly filled with the noise of family members arguing, yelling, even just talking. My mother has, quite literally, not stopped talking to me since the moment I walked in the door, except when I was asleep (but that was only until 7am - damn jetlag), and the subjects are fairly predictable: her recent trip to Nicaragua with the volunteer organization she helps run, and the general incompetence of everyone involved with it except herself, and the colonialist implications of tourism (but with an absolute refusal to recognize the colonialist implications of sending rich American teenagers to Central America for two weeks to teach people about healthcare with absolutely no qualifications); the mental and physical health problems of my sister, my dad, my aunt, my grandmother, my cousins, and assorted friends; the divorces and deaths and estrangements and other family drama/tragedies of various people we know.
She says, for about the tenth time in an hour: "It's pretty clear that [x person] suffers from some kind of serious depression. Some kind of chemical imbalance." Which is her explanation for just about any problem any person she knows is ever having.
I say: "Wow, well, I guess people aren't very happy in this world, are they?" And that gets me a lengthy speech on the couples she knows that are very happy with each other and everything else in their lives. Well, at least there's variety there. And at least she hasn't yelled at me yet about spending too much money. I'm sure that's coming soon.
So I'm sitting here on the couch, watching "Awesomely Bad Girls" on VH1 with my sister (good to be back to the trash TV, that's for sure!), and trying to figure out how to create some sort of livejournal documentation of my trip, mostly because I find myself already forgetting just about everything that happened. More to come.
I keep saying "I need to go home," meaning to Dane Street, which upsets my dad, and also upsets me when I realize that Dane Street is not my home anymore. Still, I can't wait to get back there, even if only as a visitor.
