Saturday, May 15, 2004

Is it good enough for you this time?

I don't even want to write this in here, since it's nothing new to me at all, but why not.

I cleaned the house yesterday right after school since my dad had ordered me to. I thought I did a decent job--I mean, there's not much to expect. . .you just vacuum the floors, clean the bathrooms, and it's cleaner than it was before.

A bit ago I'm sitting down in my room and I hear my dad yell, "MITCHELL, GET UP HERE!" and I already knew where this was going.

I came up here to our bathroom, and he began yelling at me because I had not cleaned the bathroom good enough for him. He ranted and raved that I never cleaned up after myself, that he's tired of saying the same thing over and over again, and then he ordered me to reclean the bathroom's counter, then vacuum in there, then vacuum my mother's computer room, take out my mother's trash. So I did this, all the while being ranted and raved at. About the only thing I said is that he gets all angry about such trivial matters.

I mean, am I supposed to really care when I clean the house? No, and he shouldn't expect me to. If he actually understood how I feel most of the time, and actually understood what it's like to be seventeen again, he wouldn't sit here and do what he does to me every day at least once. I could care less about cleaning. It's a useless, trivial process. Everything that's clean gets dirty again, therefore requiring it be cleaned once more, and it goes around in an endless circle. Clean, get dirty, clean, get dirty. The entire aspect of cleaning itself is a mundane, tedious task which I loathe doing. . .but at this point don't even care any more. I just do it because I'm told to, and because if I do it I get a little money for it. And that's it. I no longer hate it. . .I'm just apathetical about it and do it to get it done, just like I do about everything else. This is just my mentality.

By doing this, my dad perpetually shows me I'm not good enough at anything to excel in it; and nor am I good enough for him, and let alone anyone else. It makes me realize how useless and trivial my existence is, how fleeting. But of course, none of this will get in his head. He'll just continue to go on and on with his temper tantrum, while I sit there and give my "Mmhm," and let him take his blows. I used to fight back, but it did nothing. At one point, we got into a physical confrontation which felt very petty and pointless. So there's no reason to even fight back, and at this point I don't even listen to his crap. I don't deserve to be yelled at like this, and it leads me to hunger to get back at him in my clever, small ways.

Earlier this week I could not go anywhere because he did not like "the way I was talking to them." Them being my parents. So I was stuck to sit at home, and instead of sitting there, I went for walks and did not say a thing.

Every little thing I say to my father he seems to take as "sas." Or "disrespect." The main reason I was said to "speak nicer to them" was because when my dad came home one day, and came upstairs where I was, and my mom was, my mom said, "This computer's not working," and since there was no one else to blame, I was blamed for it. I told her she hadn't restarted the computer in weeks, and said I had not done it, but I was immediately yelled at by my dad. My dad was also looking for the phone, and seemed to think I had lost it when I knew I hadn't. Again, a trivial matter, but he kept going, turning to me, "Where's the phone?" endlessly. I responded with my sarcasm and of course that was being "disrespectful." So that's mainly what lead to "not talking to my parents correctly."

Well, if he understood the logistics of the situations that are presented between us, he would realize I'm merely playing a game with him. I find it fun to just fuck with him, since he likes to sit here and badger me over small, stupid things.

Why, when I was a child, he would constantly get angry over trivial things even then. Say I spill some milk? He gets all angry about that and acts like it's the end of the world. He'd even sit there and tell me I wasn't sitting in my chair right, too, when I was smaller. I never knew there was a certain way you sit in a chair. Did you? I know I didn't.

He also slapped me once, as a child, when I broke a hole in this really thin part of the wall in my room. I find that somewhat understandable, but it's certainly not nice to be slapped, anyone can agree.

He would also grab me constantly, physically try to force me to listen to what he says. He no longer does this, because he realizes I'm actually strong now, but he used to do it. It was never too hard, but still, that's not the way you treat a child.

My father is a good parent, he just doesn't control himself enough.

Whenever he goes off on his yelling and ranting and raving to me now, I just take it and don't say a thing and do what he says. I see no reason to fight back. He's not going to change. All it does is make me bitter towards him, to the point where sometimes I'll just sit downstairs fucking with him--playing his game, as it is, with him.

I did that one time this week. It was that day he said I couldn't go anywhere, and was forced to hand over my car keys, because I had talked up at him. I sat there and told him that I cannot believe how he wastes his life. He basically comes home each day from work, sits there and watches TV, or reads his newspaper. Then he'll make dinner. Then on the weekdays, he'll do the stupid, petty tasks of mowing the grass, cleaning the house. And that's his life right there. That is it--other than maybe going golfing sometimes, or going to get a drink with his alcoholic friend George Stroh, who's his boss. And he sits here and tells me I'm wasting me life. He always tells me that high school was "the best time of his life," as if I'm supposed to totally feel the same thing. He mentions I should be "going to my school's sports activities" or that I should be "more ambitious."

To put it down simply, he's very closed-minded, which is an annoying aspect. When I told him that I didn't believe in God, it was the biggest deal on this Earth. He told me that "someone who doesn't have faith won't make it through life," and that "he doesn't understand how I cannot believe in God." He's a very traditional man in the sense of religion. When I try to explain why I don't and can't believe in God, he doesn't even listen.

He never listens to me. When I'm actually speaking my heart to him, and telling him what he needs to do to be a better person, it's "psycho babble." My father's taught me how any average person is toward any other average person. . .they treat them like crap, they don't give a shit what they say, and they just want to be better than you, and have control of you.

After I had done all he had asked me to do today, he then proceeded to give me one last low blow. "When you do a job, you have to do it how they ask. How they want. I think that's why you got fired from KFC." He constantly brings up KFC just to hit me where it hurts, and at this point it does nothing anymore. I just hear it, but I don't really care.

I used to work at KFC--for 4 weeks--and then I was fired. I was not, however, fired because I wasn't doing my job. The main reason I was fired was because Diane, the manager, had too many people working, and I was the newest and probably the most timid. She said that "I should have known how to work the till" when she fired me. What's funny is they never even showed me how to work the till, I didn't even get a chance. Diane herself had been on vacation when I was hired, and when she came back was when I was fired.

Most of the other people there weren't "doing things as they were told," as my dad seems to insinuate. Most of the time they would stand around and talk. But no, apparently I got fired because of what my dad says, because my dad understands this situation entirely even though I've never even really explained it to him. He doesn't have the right to put words in my mouth--tell me why I was fired--and use it as some tool to pry me open with. But there's not much I can do, so I just take it--along with everything else he does--like a man.

The main thing is my dad doesn't understand me. We never talk one-on-one about what we think because he's so closed-minded that when I do do that, he doesn't even listen. I do love him, but at the same time I can't stand him. But I guess that is love right there.

I've forgiven him too much for all the things he's done. I'd say that, at least partially, how cynical I am and how sarcastic I am is because of him. The blame isn't completely hoistered by him, but he's made me what I am, it's certain, among other things that have too.

I just wish he would stop yelling and getting mad over stupid, petty, trivial things all the time. He acts like it's the end of the world if something's not done to his exact expectations. He's somewhat of a perfectionist in this light, and that is the complete opposite of me. I could care less if something's clean or not, as long as it's cleaned from time to time. I find there's organization that's far more beautiful in chaos. I don't like things to be so clear cut, I don't like wasting my time watching TV and sitting there reading the newspaper, reading about petty world events that mostly don't matter. I don't like golfing. I don't like so many things he likes.

It's much the same with my mom. I never talk to my mom, and when she talks to me she still talks to me like I'm some little child. And when my father and I argue--moreover, he argues with me--she immediately overreacts and runs away. I often wonder how my mom's made it through life with the way she handles things. When there's an immediate point of conflict, all she does is run away, and tell the conflict to stop. It's too bad conflict is one of the superoccuring things of this human world.

By yelling at me my dad only makes me bitter and not want to do anything. By incessantly telling me, when I come home, that "I need a job," it only makes me bitter about it more. It's kind of like, "No shit, I know I need a job. . .so quit telling me." He needs to learn to control his temper. He needs to learn to be diplomatic, like me. He needs to learn that yelling doesn't work. That it's not communication. That the only way to get me to listen is to actually listen to me more than himself.

Then there's another aspect to it, too. After every single time he blows up at me, or does what he does, he'll come back and talk to me like nothing's happened and tell me he's sorry. It's starting to feel a little routine. It doesn't even feel like he's sorry. I've heard "I'm sorry about this and that and this" so much so many places that I realize telling someone that does nothing, because when my dad tells me he's sorry it doesn't do much. It does do something--I forgive him--but it's a stupid forgiveness. It doesn't last. As soon as I forgive him, it'll cease. It's ephemeral because eventually he'll yell at me again, or do something to me, and it'll all happen over and over and over and over and over and over and over again. . .just like everything.

I do think he understands the extent of what he does to me somewhat, but he definitely isn't as good at empathy as me, and I can tell he can't grasp what I'm feeling. Ever. Or how what he does changes me. Ever.

In the end, it's no longer a big deal to me. I just brush it all aside and go on, and realize that's just my dad, and he's more of a dad to me than my real dad, Tom Smith, sure as hell ever was. And in the end, it's just an endless soap opera that I'm sick of participating in.
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