I really hate being home. in The Tightrope Dance (August 2019)

Yeah, that’s something I didn’t ever think I’d be saying. But seeing as I’m trapped here (again, always) I keep coming flat up against this fact. I hate being home. I hate home.

No, I don’t always hate home. I was fine with the 26 addresses before 21. They all eventually turned into home (or we left the same week.) (No, not exaggerating. Poverty sucks.)

But here? I’ve been here at least fifteen years, at least thirteen of those as Sole Adult Female. I can’t decorate. I tried. His dad flipped and wants only white downstairs. He’ll never be back over here (his words) and yet my husband won’t buy paint. My mint-green was not bad. I liked it. It was happy. But now the room…is white. White, white, white. Except it’s mostly White with Sharpies because let’s face it, being an autism mom means I had an “artistic toddler” much longer than usual. In some cases, they’re still pretty bad to the walls. Laina’s peeled hers down to sheetrock.

So I can’t change home. I am not allowed.

And we all know cleaning with this many kids and teenagers is a long cosmic joke. Dude, I don’t do jokes. Fuck cleaning. But I have relatives up this week. Twice, because my birthday is also this week. Next Sunday. I’m be 40. No one will care.

So I want out. And my car’s broken, and he won’t let me drive his. Because I’m unlicensed.
Oh let me get started on how he’s the reason I’m unlicensed!!!

It’s like he’s actively resisting me, but at the same time, clinging to me. While I’m already drowning, I must also support him. But I don’t want to. I want to punk him in the thick head and swim away by myself. Because I’m realizing, 90% of this nastiness? It’s him.
He doesn’t clean unless you drag him to a point and hand him a bag. And he won’t stand up to clean. He took 20 minutes to get my wheel cover off my flat tire because he wouldn’t stand up while using the tire iron.

He says it’s because he can’t walk more than 150 steps.
Yeah? So now I’m supposed to add the thousands of steps a dad makes to the thousands I already do? NO THANK YOU.

He says he’s got a disabled placard for his car. Pity him.
I point out it’s temporary all the time. He’s supposed to be gaining endurance. Instead, he doesn’t move.

He said not to worry, he’d teach me to mow the lawn. I laughed. I am not mowing. HE hired a service for it, he can figure out how to pay those motherfuckers regularly. Why don’t I get a housekeeping service, if he gets to hire a yard one? Having a couple more clean bowls a week would be nice.

Could he just die? I feel like he is already very old, and now I am also old, doing old people shit like having dinner at six on the dot and then tv all night. (Every night. He’s not at all disabled when he watches Supernatural for hours and hours! He gets up and makes himself snacks that would technically count as meals. Huge meals. He ate two pounds of sharp cheddar somehow, in five days. I had a little, the girls might have too - we all like cheese and that’s our favorite - but that’s still an incredible amount of cheese. And he’s been through about 36 oz. of sliced hard salami, although he says “Alaina had half.” (Maybe she did, kid loves salami.)

All I know is when I bought the second 18 oz, I was kind of hoping to have some, but it’s already gone. I bought it night before last.

I keep looking for reasons to keep this relationship and I can’t find any. Now this house feels like an endless bad sleepover and my mom isn’t coming to pick me up.

Ever.

Maple cheerios are interesting. EN thinks the bowl had treats. No milk, though. I asked for toast, but the kids ran off instead. Bryan hasn’t moved since dinnertime yesterday. Literally. Apparently reheating a casserole I made in advance is hard work.

Could make my own toast, but I’m not cooking because everyone’s busy telling me they don’t like my cooking. Of course, that would be my toast, but hey. Maybe I hate my own cooking, too.

But mostly I just hate that my car has some dumb nonstandard wheel size or whatever.