life according to my parents -- blog journal, frequently updated

day 0.5

this is the schedule, written up by my parents & our family therapist. it was 'proposed' to me in the sense that i wasn't a part of the making of it, but not so in the sense that i have no say in any of this. i knew this was coming, and ahead of confirmation, i wrote, "i am 23, 24 years old in June. i want to kill myself. i mean, i wanted to before this. this is only making it worse."

day 1 of my parent's new schedule

last night wasn't actually too bad, i thought at first. this isn't a favor they did me, but more a testament to human creativity & resourcefulness, adaptability; i just picked out three books i hadn't read in years and started reading. i was allowed my mp3 player, so i listened to music while i did so. that worked out fine. i was fine. until i turned off the lights, and tried to sleep.

...it was like i stopped taking a med, or...another type of drug, that i rely on. usually when i turn the lights off in my room, i have one last light i'm looking at -- my phone, as i play Cookie Run or watch YouTube while my parents sleep. without that -- i don't know if it was the light from the phone itself, or the activity/activities, i don't know what i felt the lack of the most -- everything in the room looked weird. the remaining light in my room -- from light pollution, street lights, the moon, etc. -- was too bright. and i felt really, really anxious. i was also feeling sick, so i used the bathroom one more time, and then i tried to sleep, and it took...a long time.

eventually i did fall asleep, though.

and i woke up two minutes before my new alarm that goes off at 9:00, i woke up because i was having a...nightmare. i was experiencing so much...digestive discomfort...in my real life that i felt it in my dream, and it turned into a dream recalling the latest worst times in my real life. i was stuck on the toilet, and then i woke up, had to use the bathroom, and was stuck on the toilet.

after i fed my dog, like i was supposed to, i realized i was still anxious & on edge. i still felt like they took away something i physically needed; i guess that makes sense because i use a lot of things i do on my phone like dissociatives; i use them to dissociate.

so i grabbed my mp3 player, and after turning the music up, i was finally able to calm down. somewhat.

then i did my laundry ("wow, you're being so productive, maybe this is good for you!" shut the fuck up, i was going to do that anyway), emptied the dishwasher & folded some sheets to get in my 30 minutes of chores, had breakfast, took my pills, and then i...came in here. 

it's 11:25 AM, my time.

how do i feel, now? numb. i feel numb. not entirely apathetic. still anxious. but also numb. i didn't -- don't -- even feel like i missed my phone, or even the ability to talk to my friends whenever i might need to, i just feel broken down & numb.

"good morning," guys. how was your night?

day 2

last night wasn't awful. i mean, it was and it wasn't; i had finished up with a call to a friend, and i was in pain, and so i didn't even want to do anything but sleep, and eventually i did sleep. the only sense that something was off, taking the place of anger, was a slight craving to fall asleep to a YouTube video -- comedy, or something about aquariums. a slight craving, the kind that itches the inside of your self, your skin, but you have to ignore it.

i woke up this morning, and -- sorry, this is difficult for me, i'm having trouble remembering a lot of this morning, and yesterday, it must be how dissociated i am -- i fed my dog, i had breakfast, i emptied the dishwasher, put pillowcases back on pillows, folded napkins & put them away, i had another very (oh, fuck you) "productive," mp3-fueled morning. another morning i was barely there for

then i took my meds with a smoothie, and it might've been what i put in the smoothie, or something in my meds, or leftover exhausted from last night, but i'm experiencing vague queasiness in addition to exhaustion, the type that makes your eyes feel unfocused, and hellish amounts of brain fog. i don't want to eat or do anything right now, but...there were some realizations i've had, that i should get off my chest.

one is that this reminds me of my job.

my job i used to have, before i quit the mental health program due to decreasing physical health, before i even started the mental health program, i had a job.

i was good at it, because as i understood it; i would clock in, relinquish my autonomy for the day, which is something i was more or less fine with as long as i could dissociate through it, especially given that i needed -- still need -- the money i would get in exchange for my lack of personhood for the day. i'm a robot, or a soldier, or a dog, following instructions is easy enough when they're clear and i'm getting something back. either a simple-enough desired outcome, for the day, or something that will eventually lead to...freedom, from the whole thing. this way i am around my job, jobs in general, actually made me a very effective employee, because i wouldn't really fight anything, the only part of my true self i kept was my autistic-brand earnestness which kept me engaged with & engaging to customers, and i didn't see any problems in how i was being treated (usually, my sense of justice that might prevent me from habitual obedience activates when its other people's personhood on the line, not mine). at least, not for a very long time. i did eventually become very quietly disillusioned, resentful, i even felt insane, towards the end of my two years there, as i became more invested in the freedom of the Palestinian people, people across the consensus Earth, and as i found just how interconnected everything is, which then lead to the realization that common people are not only surprisingly cruel but neglectful of that cruelty. i was obedient in the sense that i did my job, but questioned everything around me as i observed it. and more, once i was off the clock. the others were obedient in the sense that they did their jobs, and their jobs must've been at least partly to discard the interconnectedness of things. off the clock, they were simply living 'their best lives.'

when i was off the clock, though, when i wasn't doing what i could to be in community or serve what communities was/am in, or if all my energy was spent, being at home, while imperfect, while the place my parents were, was being at rest. and i say "was," speaking in past tense, because being at home no longer means being at rest. now, being at home means being...back on the clock, this reminds me of my job because it reminds me of the feeling of clocking in & handing in my autonomy for the day. my parents constantly suggest i don't really know what hard work is. i do, and i seek it. i seek fulfillment through work, like many other people do. but having a job isn't just doing work. no, if you are at all critical of capitalism, having a job is so much more than doing work. i am used to doing work, i know work. what i wasn't used to, and what i didn't know, was the bringing of the lack of autonomy home; the lack of personhood; the idea that my every decision should be someone else's, or according to someone else's standard of living. before this new schedule, i would not be living well, and i would still be dehumanized and punished, but i would still have ways of fighting back. now, i have to do things a certain way to avoid losing my only way of communication with the outside world as a disabled person. i simply have to, and i have to so well that their standard of living becomes my own, or else i convince them that is what has happened. i am being "productive" because if i don't, i will get the ability to communicate taken away from me, in addition to the ability to regulate myself via artificially-strengthened dissociation. i have no other way to resist than everything i have already tried. i cannot break out of this cage myself, so i have to follow the rules. i have to do things which -- well, let's not say i don't want to do them, that should be obvious, but it's also reductive, i have to change myself & my patterns to force myself to do them, i have to just dissociate & follow instruction, none of this resonates within me or comes from within me -- and this is like being on the clock. this is like my job. but worse, because now i can never get off.

and they are proud, y'know. because i was dissociating instead of outwardly angry while my parents & family therapist presented the schedule to me, they thought i was accepting of it...i was, in a way. they are very proud, they are very happy. i feel like i'm dying, but they are thrilled, they are probably very glad i have 'finally realized' that 'growing up' means 'doing things you don't want to do.' they are glad they have figured out something that might 'work,' 'this time.' if this is what growing up is, if this was inevitable according to normative standards of 'basic functioning,' than 'growing up' is abuse. forcing something to 'mature' in this way is abuse.

when i shared the first entry -- originally a bulletin -- i was well-aware how like addiction i was making my reliance on my phone, my technology, out to be. that was intentional. "you're addicted to your phone, you use it like drugs," my parents say, and first of all, sure i do, but second of all, that's none of your business, we shouldn't be taking people's copes away for no fucking reason. i know a kid, from the mental health program, who was a bit sensitive, and a bit of a dick, with his tech, but then they took his tech, they took his copes, and a week later he...tried to kill himself and ended up injuring another guy. great job, staff, i say, sarcastically. i'm not excusing his actions, by the way, i'm condemning theirs; they failed to protect anyone involved. in all seriousness,...yeah,...trying to "break"/force-quit people's addictions without addressing any of the underlying problems is. heh, 'funny.' and by funny i mean cruel, potentially dangerous, and really fucking stupid. if my underlying problem is that i'm being abused by my parents, and you give them even more power, endorsed by psychological institutions, to abuse me as a solution to the apparent problem, which are my coping mechanisms i use to survive the abuse, this shows my health is actually the least important factor in the equation. perhaps it's egotistical to only focus on myself while attempting to make a point about these systems at large, but i simply didn't mean to speak for anyone else. it's not my -- our -- health that matters, but my -- our -- 'function,' my -- our -- productivity.

the final realization i would like to share with you is that i think i feel more than i feel. or, rather, i think i am far angrier & far more afraid that i am showing right now, showing even to myself. i feel almost-numb, still, but there's something screaming in the back of my mind. one of the things i am afraid of is this itself; how far away from my self i will end up. how much will i end up accepting, swallowing down, forgetting. i will be horrified to discover i care less about other people than i did when this started. i will be horrified to have lost my sense of justice, or my will to fight, entirely. at the start of this, i wanted to die. and my final realization is that this is killing me. i dissociate, to "get away" from the abuse. this is why sometimes, i move from suicidal, to "fine;" the version of me sitting there is not the same version of me that was there expressing that great pain. if i ever "get away" and don't come back, even if my physical form stays intact; if you ever meet a version of me that does not care for the Palestinian people, Greek people, if you meet a version of me that does not care for the water, the Earth, for children, for people, in totality, human people and non-human people, if you ever meet a version of me that has been broken down so thoroughly i let cruelty happen before me and do not react, that isn't me anymore. you could put effort into it, trying to bring me back, with no guarantee i would, or, if it were between you and freedom, you could kill it and feel no grief as i had been lost long ago.

i believe i remember mentioning that my mother punishes me by deducting money from my monthly allowance every time i break the rule of 'no donations.' yes, i am being actively punished for caring about others. no, i will not stop, and if i ever stop, you can call me dead and my shell, if physically healthy, empty. i will not stop, i will claim i forgot about my mother's rules until she does something worse, and if she ever does, i will use the repercussions against her if i can. 

i won't give up. 

not until the very last. not until i am truly defeated, which -- who knows? -- may never happen.

then i will be either dead by my own hand, in all ways, or merely in the only way that really counts.

day 3 -- morning

i had a hypothesis, about something our family therapist said to my father, which was confirmed last night when i asked him about it; during the meeting where my parents & the therapist proposed the new schedule to me, my father told me that this was alien to him. he wasn't used to, didn't like, setting hard rules, or 'boundaries,' because yes, what my parents have with me, they're calling 'boundaries.' alrighty, then. the family therapist comforted him, encouraged him to share how he felt, and said it was a good thing he articulated that so they could work through it. my family therapist called it 'conflict avoidance,' and asked me whether i thought it was accurate that my father seemed less willing to be authoritative, while my mother seemed...more willing. it was a good thing, too, that my mother was -- is -- more willing.

if i might explain something -- my father was raised in a house with six other children. his parents were what i call 'old school,' the type to wash a child's mouth out with soap, hit them, maybe, if they were really angry.

my father is also the only one that i could reach out to, for a long time, when i felt like shit after my mother and i got into an argument or she tried to..."lay down the law," that's the way she puts it, in a way i saw as not only unfair but otherworldly-unbefitting or even abusive. he was the one that reassured me she still loved me when i genuinely doubted it. he wouldn't directly challenge her that often, perhaps because he is genuinely afraid of conflict, but he would question her, get me out from under the bus i was thrown under. i would refer to him as 'the cool one,' even though he could do things just as awfully controlling, when he saw fit, because he was...less awfully controlling.

my hypothesis is that the family therapist is not only firmly dis-believes me, is anti-me, firmly believes my mother, but in that, this family therapist has decided the problem isn't that i'm being abused. the problem isn't that they -- and specifically my mother -- are too effective in the way they've impacted me for the worse, no. the problem is that they -- and specifically my mother -- aren't effective enough. my father has been ever-so-slightly holding my mother back (when she once said, "if you can't make good decisions, i'll make them for you," he asked her if she really meant it, tried to calm her from being quite so angry), and *that's* the problem. according to our family therapist, and according to our family. my mother actually needs free reign to hold me as accountable as the piece of lazy, aimless shit i am needs.

to get her free reign, our family therapist pathologized my father's ever-so-slight want to...not completely dehumanize me.

and called it good.

it's so sick it almost makes me laugh. it's hilarious, ridiculous. it's so sick. it's so otherwordly-wrong. cruel. and yet so 'normal.'

it's 'normal,' it's "fine."

just like living without my coping mechanism, at least at night & in the early morning (which is when it matters most), and living without autonomy, is starting to become "fine." if you discount how much i've been dissociating and, actually, maladaptive-daydreaming, nearly hallucinating, to get the fuck out of my body and out of this reality.

alrighty, then.

i survive one moment at a time.

day 3 -- evening

my father told me he wants me to be 'my own timekeeper,' even more than i already have been. following instructions is not enough, he asked me to research if there was anything -- a timer or clock -- i could "hang on the chair." i'm always running out of time. that's how it feels. that will follow me, it seems.

day 4 -- morning

i'm just a dog, man. 'just a dog-man. i'm so good at listening so good. i'm so good at being such a good boy. this is a cycle of kindness-as-reward, deprivation-as-punishment, and the accountability something lesser would need, and i'm right at home in it. it works on me. of course, it works on me. when i'm 'alone,' when nobody else is in the room, when i am full-body daydreaming; i am silently yelling, screaming, venting. but when others are around, and if you asked me during any random moment of the day, there is nothing to vent. i haven't...felt, much, recently. not in any full-body, grounded way. my ex, he called it apathy. one of my friends from the mental health program, numbness. i believe the second term than the first; my friend was aware he was depressed, 'though the awareness didn't do much for him, my ex was brought so low by it that he thought reality was just as much of a cynic as he was. my friend Sam calls it husk mode; you are an empty husk of yourself. this is most accurate of all; and perhaps i can be brought back -- i want to bring Sam back, i want to bring everyone back -- but for now, i'm a dog wearing a clock for a collar.

day 4 -- afternoon

i can't paint. i can't paint anymore. i look over at the painting i've been working on lately and it feels me with...self-loathing? no, that's not it. fear? not quite....the concept in my head buckles under the weight of how everything i am belongs to other people. an earlier version of the painting had words on it; slurs, but mine to reclaim, if you didn't know. my mother smirked at me, sort of, a week-ish ago, saying, "i like your 'cr!pple f@g.'" those words aren't hers to use....i remember a conversation we had, once, where she said, as if it was a choice, "you don't want to be disabled *and* transgender. it'll be really hard to date, to find love." "it'll make you really hard to love"...those words aren't hers to use. she's so strangely proud of me, when i do art, strange because it's my number one form of expression *against* her, and it sickens me. unless, of course, it's a silly little doodle of a gun-shaped hat, not even a gun but a gun-shaped hat, that i made with a friend, then that art is disallowed and my tech gets taken away, she couldn't be less proud. they see everything i make. i don't like it. i feel the need to hide myself, and i have no energy to make anything they can compliment, insult, or even see.

day 4 -- evening

it's happening, for the first time. i read this morning, emptied the dishwasher, exercised, organized a bookshelf's worth of books,...happened to not feed my dog until 6:15 while his dinner is at 6:00 PM. i'm going to get thirty minutes taken off my 'internet use,' my father told me, while smiling happily & gently. he asked me when i want them taken off, which thirty minutes i want taken off. "i'm not gonna give you a time when i want them taken off, i don't want them taken off." so he's going to give me a time.

day 5

i keep thinking i'm accepting too much, i keep thinking i'm becoming fine with this against all odds -- because last night, while sitting next to him, one of my dominant conscious thoughts was how i still enjoyed the time i was spending with my father -- until i remember how the night ended with me sitting on the floor next to my bed, barely hearing the music i was listening to, staring at the wall for...i don't know how long. but i was just sitting and staring. not moving. not catatonic, obviously, but i wasn't...doing anything. i was just sitting there dissociating, without even moving or fidgeting at all. i start with a fear i'm losing myself one way and then here comes a fear i'm losing myself in another way.

day 11

the list has been updated with 'suggestions' for what even counts as exercise & chores respectively, and it's also been printed up, and posted in multiple places around my house. 'taped to the walls. there's one right next to my computer in my bedroom, and in my little shitty 'office'/'man cave'. 'like it's watching me. and i'm sorta starting to 'enjoy' the collar & leash; i forgot what it felt like to have my parents be proud of me. it's conditional. it's incomplete; they're never going to believe i'm enough, especially if i don't 'get better' on their terms. but having parents that love you, or having the feeling, or illusion, that they do, that shit's like a drug, too. do you good parent-having mofos know that? do you take it for granted, are you used to it? but what's really not fair is, i'm doing everything 'right,' finally, which means according to them i *should* be getting better, and i'm still just...not. well, i am, but not fast enough. i'm still a lazy, 'agoraphobic,' crippled loser who keeps 'missing opportunities' -- i'm still vaguely nauseous more time than not, my ribs still hurt at odd times, i still feel like i have brain damage, my legs still fall asleep 'for no reason' -- and i miss people; i miss having more friends, i miss when i was...cool.

day 12 -- morning

last night, as if to prove my point about my parents being only conditionally proud or loving or...kind, my mother called me a dick. and not in a jesting or teasing way, she meant it. we were doing a puzzle together, the clue was 'a beginner,' there were only certain letters available, she said "newbie," i said "noob." she didn't believe me, i repeated i was pretty sure i was right. and then she replied, "you're such a dick." why, after i do everything right and even begin to think i enjoy it, or at least i enjoy how people treat me better, does my mother call me a dick for correcting her -- not even about something big like politics. "newbie" vs more Gen Z-ish, linguistically 'updated' "noob," with the latter being the answer to a puzzle we were doing and the former...not -- why? why am i a fucking dick, for any reason, for every reason?

day 12 -- evening

i felt good enough to go for a short walk with my walker, out in the 'fresh' air (i live in a car-centric city. how fresh is it?) i think multiple things have contributed to my feeling good enough to do that, but mainly the pantoprazole i've been taking. i know that my parents think my new schedule is a huge factor; the deciding factor, actually. i know they want me to think this, too. i know they want me to enjoy this; they did say they were doing this so i could 'thrive;' and now they think the changes they forced on me are doing the job. they think this is good for me. is it? it was lovely to go for a walk, to realize i could, to realize i didn't feel as bad as i thought it would, to feel the breeze, but i don't want to associate that loveliness with what they did for -- er, to -- me. i wonder what my life would be like if it had been someone else, a friend?, gently reminding me all i had to do was try, rather than my mother telling me i should get some exercise or i'd lose internet access. i wonder what my life would be like if it wasn't my *moral* responsibility to get better, to 'function like a normal person,' i wonder what my life would be like if the people i'd met at the mental health program; the rehab -- the people i'd really liked -- had actually understood what chronic illness is, and decided to stay in contact with me after i had to drop out of the program for medical reasons. instead of shrugging, secretly blaming me for falling out of touch with them while maintaining i could not blame them, saying; well, proximity is necessary for friendship. it was one of those things where *you had to be there.* because i just imagined something; i feel good enough to leave the house again, but i'm not yet powerful or free enough for my life to actually change in any substantial way; and that in itself needs changing, too. i can go for as many walks as i'd like, and it won't mean a thing relative to the place i'm heading 'home' to. maybe i could even go back to the mental health program, or another like it, and even if the clients there treat me like one of them, i'll still be doomed to be forgotten about if i ever get sick again. and i will. ups & downs. such is life. am i supposed to just pretend that isn't true, am i supposed to just greet people like nothing happened, like they didn't treat me like nothing? i don't even want to go back to the mental health program, or any like it. i don't want the kind of treatment this current reality offers.