02/22/22

 Grandma's House

    Stephanie's pregnant? Dude. Right? 

    I had her phone call on speaker by the pool, and I almost fell in, I was so gobsmacked. Good God.

    Anyway, in between me finding out and me telling Uncle Dirk-- I am a gossip, and he likes gossip, so I tell him all my gossip-- I had a job interview. In an entirely different country. Don't worry, they knew I was out of the country, and they were all very grateful I was able to have the interview in the Peruvian countryside. Really, I just can't stand my own job anymore. Luckily, I was able to find an acceptable Zoom top in time. I didn't want them to see my ratty ass pajama shirt, or some shirt designed to save me from the humidity.

    Personally, I think it went really well. It was my fifth interview for the same job. I know, I know. They have everyone interview multiple times, just to make sure they're a good fit for the company and the job, because they don't like employee turnover. To which I say, sweet, if a bit long.

    They scheduled me for another one on Friday, which is... uh... shortly after I come back. Please God, don't let there be any delays in my already very long adventure. So that was cool.

    Here's what wasn't: I was upset and I didn't want to blow up at Uncle Dirk, so I just avoided him, which I think hurt his feelings. After my interview, I went on the porch swing, where Uncle Dirk found me, a couple minutes later. Of course, the little girl wasn't too far behind. We talked about Stephanie for as much as we could with a small child constantly interrupting, but... it was annoying.

    Here's what didn't help: After about five minutes, he got up and said, "Well, I've got better things to do."

    Um. Okay? What can someone even say to that? "No you don't"?

    So I was doubly upset. What did I do? Reacted childishly, as I am wont to do. During dinner, I avoided Uncle Dirk as much as I could, including eye contact, because I'm incredibly aware that my face is super expressionate (is that a word? Christ. What word am I thinking of? OH RIGHT. EXPRESSIVE.) I know, okay? Childish. I already said it was.

    After dinner, he went to his room and closed his door, which hadn't happened before in my time here. Normally, he'd leave it open until he said goodnight and went to bed. So my brain kicked into anxiety-mode. Why was I always pushing away the people I wanted to keep around?

    I wanted to leave. I wanted to go home. I wanted to crawl under my sheets, turn on Superstore, and fall asleep. I felt that itch I get, when I'm restless and want to move, be transient, be anywhere other than where I am. I couldn't go anywhere, not even outside. There were alarms, and dogs, and a gate that I didn't have a key to. I could climb out my window, but not without breaking the glass.

    So I was stuck. I called Stephanie for her advice. She told me that Uncle Dirk is notoriously non-confrontational. That any conflict causes him to go to ground and just disappear. Twinsies. She told me that one time, after Grandpa had pissed him off, Uncle Dirk cut his trip a week short and flew back the same day without saying goodbye.

    ICON.

    But... I had to talk to him. If we were both used to going to ground, cutting people off without resolution because it was just so much easier, then who was going to cave first in this game of chicken?

    I hate emotional talks. I'm prone to crying when I'm mad, and I'm always mad, and so I prefer to do my yelling and run somewhere to cry so it doesn't undercut the fury. I hate emotional talks because it's so easy to break me down. And I hate the idea of shoving my uncle into an emotional talk when he might not want to. I'd hate it, even if it had to be done.

    When have I ever done what has to be done? I think I'm more known for taking off and not doing anything except what I want, right? I think.

    I hate emotions, I really do. I studied creative writing in college and I know how to use them to write and write well, but I hate accessing them outside of the sort of distant way it is when I use them to write. It's almost like clinically studying something. Emotional Me has an idea for a piece, and will scribble a very rough draft, or the idea behind it, and the next day-- or whenever-- Regular Me will take it out, examine it, and relive the emotions, while still keeping them at bay. That makes no sense. Whatever. It only has to make sense to me, I guess.

    The BPD kills me sometimes. I'm either numb or feeling entirely too much-- the restlessness right now is unbearable. And so I did what I had done before: paced the room like a caged animal, searching for any sort of out and trying to find something that would work to calm me down. I have nothing. My hands have no magic for me to take the excess emotions out, and I know the restlessness will fuel an extra undercurrent of intensity if I try to talk to Uncle Dirk.

    But it has to be done.

    So I stood in the open space between our rooms, counted to three-- my special trick for doing things I don't want to do: shots, texts, shotgunning a drink-- and knocked on his door before I could think it through. Which meant that, when I finally got in, I had no idea what to say. I was lost. My carefully planned words? GONE.

    I paced his room for five minutes, trying to figure out if I could leave without it being weird and trying to figure out how I could start this conversation, before I finally counted to three in my head and blurted out what I was trying to say, except not as diplomatically as I'd planned to say it. I tried to save face by adding that it probably wasn't coming out right. But what in my life ever did?

    I didn't want to start crying. I really did not. But I did anyway, as I tried to explain. Every time I started, I told him to give me a minute, then I proceeded to shove every emotion down and start again with as little as possible. Rinse and repeat, because the entire initial monologue kept making me heated.

    I don't think I ever fully got my point across, but I do feel better. So I think that counts, right?

J

    Don't come at me for never finishing this. I feel like Professor Finbar Calamitous. Don't judge me for that reference.