A couple of days ago I was
crying. My
boyfriend (
more than, really) and I were having a
misunderstanding/
disagreement on ICQ (he lives thousands of miles away) and I needed to let the tears out.
My family cares about me, really. And my computer is in the middle of the house, in a room with several open doors leading in to it. So naturally my brother (who is in the room because it is his now) asks me, "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine. Just leave me alone, and pretend like I'm locked away in my own room, even though I don't have one."
My mother, in the kitchen, now has to ask, too.
"Would you pretend like I have some privacy, even though I don't?" I beg.
She (well, everyone) likes to come stand over me and talk to me while I'm on the computer, looking at my screen. Or maybe not, but I feel like they're looking, and even if I am doing something completely innocuous, I don't like it.
My mother brought me a letter I got. It's nice of her to bring me these instead of leaving them with the rest of the mail for me to search out later. However, I don't appreciate her asking me what it is. Especially before I even open it.
"Why are you getting mail with a Somerville, TX return address that was postmarked in Tennessee?" she asked once.
"I don't know," I said, and reached for the envelope. She stood over my shoulder curiously. I didn't open it. Today I got another letter. She handed it to me, asking me what it was, before I opened it even. I snapped at her.
She didn't like that. She started talking about how she's just trying to do her job as a mother and take care of her children. She starts complaining that I don't help her enough. "You've never wanted to work in the kitchen with me like mother and daughter!" she accuses. It's not the kitchen I have so much against (okay, I really don't like cooking, but still) as working with someone... and not as much with someone (provided they are competent) as with a mother who still treats me as if I were a child.
I turned my bedroom over to my brother. My brother is a pig. He junked the room up so bad that one has to rearrange the mess to close the doors. A lot of my stuff is still here. The rest is sprawled in the living room where it was dumped when I moved out of my dorm room earlier this week. If I want privacy, I pretty much have to go in the bathroom and lock the door. And even then someone knocks on the door and asks what I'm doing and when I'll be finished, with a commentary on how long I am taking.
There is a nice, quiet, neat place up in Oregon, where someone willing to share their home and heart would welcome me with open arms. I can't spend very much time there, however, because my parents don't think it's proper and I'm trying to pacify them enough not to feel guilty about all the money they are spending on my education. And because I love them, really. I love my family. They just piss me off.