.tired

To begin, the internet tells me who I am:

Which tarot card are you?
not flattered?

Which Member of the Endless Are You?
or, equally possibly...

Which Member of the Endless Are You?
The heir apparent is to go into hospital as soon as they can find her a bed. Something about more closely monitering the effects of her antidepressants. She's on crazy strong stuff now, like a zombie she is.
Don't you stop yelling at a person when they're like that? When they're that sick? Don't you stop picking fights with them and criticizing them and whining at them? Surely depression ought to give you a bit of a free pass from all that idiocy. It's only fair. If you can't read, can't think, can barely watch television, and spend half your afternoons just crying, you don't really need any extra help with misery, surely.
They don't know when to back off.
In truth, for I must be fair, even in a diary, they have shifted a little from the nightly screaming fits they had at her before they kicked her out of the house to spend a year working in a parking garage, the last time. Spazz and I are more often targets instead of her than before--we're very convenient for this just now, being "home." And, of course, they always get such an entertaining reaction from me. It's all about reaction, that's what bullies like, right? That's what the teachers always told me when I was little. They always tell you not to react, but that's all very well for people who can dismiss other people's hatred or anger or even mild dislike, but I never could. And working six days a week in an oven, burning myself and talking to idiots all the time puts me on edge enough that I turn a lovely nice shade of pink and start shrieking uneccessarily at the least provocation. What a lovely show for them. Not that they've ever had trouble getting at me; it's a gift of theirs. They've cultivated enough built-up resentment I've never dared express to them that it takes little more to set me off than an unnecessary lecture on the vile sin of waiting outside bathroom doors for a turn when they don't know you're there and so startling them when they open the door. Or sitting on a couch, for once out of the room when they don't expect to see you. I don't know what they expect me to do about this--wear a cowbell? It is my fault they're unperceptive and jumpy?
Much as I feel they deserve to be yelled at a lot more often, I wish I had self-control around them.
I just wish they'd stop playing their power games on me--you know, the old 'I control more of your life than you do' routine. It's as if they don't know they've got me where they want. Or as if they need some sort of cruel reassurance all the time that they still matter enough to make me cry.
I'm tired of apologizing for being tired. I'm tired of apologizing for being so ungrateful as to turn down her majesty's beautiful meal she slaved over when I'm so nauseous even water tastes of rancid butter. I'm tired of apologizing for defending my sister. Always with the ingratitude they are. Disagreement is not ingratitude and the roof over our heads has nothing to do with the topics under discussion.
Why is it always so one-sided? They're only people, after all, and they are wrong sometimes, even though they don't admit it. More than sometimes. Being a parent gives you responsibilities, it doesn't give you rights. Surely they shouldn't win every fight. And it shouldn't always be a war.
I hope she gets better soon. She needs to be able to work so she can get out of this house. She keeps asking after the phone, waiting for the call. Spazz isn't talking to anybody, at least as much as someone like her can be isolated. She's always been good at the talking and the smiling, even and especially when it isn't real. Unhappiness is, after all, ingratitude, not to mention a lack of "perspective." Glad as I am that we're not starving in a Third World country, I still must say that this summer for all of us has mostly been a dead loss.
Much as my finances are bleak, I am very much looking forward to fall.
I hate being beholden to them. I wish I were a useful person. I wish they'd let me work earlier instead of preserving my marks, which didn't get me a scholarship anyway. I wish I wasn't so coddled that I hardly ever cope with anything real that matters. I wish I knew what I was doing. I don't have to enjoy it, I just need something practical, something I can do.
I hope she gets better. I hope she gets better soon.
I wish I could do something.