Ten Little Chances to be Free (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
tenlittlebullets) wrote2009-10-14 03:58 pm
tenlittlebullets) wrote2009-10-14 03:58 pm
fuck.
I hate her. I fucking hate her. I cannot take two fucking steps in this apartment without hearing a catalogue of all the stupid fucking insignificant menial household tasks I haven't done, or haven't done to her specifications, or god knows what fucking else. And she does not listen to a word I say. Every single conversation we have isn't so much a conversation as a one-sided lecture about how right she is about everything and how nobody else knows anything about anything.
I tried to call her out on it. Honest to god I fucking did. This morning I was on my way out the door, about to be late for lecture, when she grabs me and lays into me for something or another and I SWEAR TO GOD SHE PINCHED MY CHEEKS. I thought that was only a figure of speech for Christ's sake. Then she had the nerve to ask why I was answering in monosyllables and generally trying to GTFO as fast and as unresponsively as I could, and I told her flat-out that I don't appreciate being scolded like a little kid all the time.
Yeah, so much for trying to get to class on time. That turned into a one-sided lecture about how she didn't think of me as a little kid at all, how I was wrong wrong wrong for getting that impression, and how I needed to get these silly ideas out of my head. With a side helping of how very, very justified she was for upbraiding me about whatever particular thing she was on about that morning. I seriously think she was under the impression that I was only talking about THIS ONE PARTICULAR INCIDENT when I told her not to treat me like a six-year-old anymore.
I want to get out of here. It's gotten to the point where I've stopped doing things. I've stopped eating breakfast because if I don't I only have to deal with her briefly while I'm on my way out the door. I've stopped playing the piano because she bitches at me if I leave the cover open or don't push the piano stool in far enough when I'm done or don't put my music away. I can't practice for voice lessons while she's here because even though she's never been evil enough to criticize my singing, the thought that she might be listening makes my voice wither in my throat. Half of me just wants to avoid her, half of me wants to slap her and track mud all over the carpet and turn my techno up to eleven and slam doors and leave plates of half-eaten food in the living room and all the other bratty things I never did when I was fourteen.
It's starting to spill over into the rest of my life, too. Being carped at on my way out the door every fucking day puts me in a shit-ass mood for the rest of the day. And it doesn't help that I cry when I'm stressed and frustrated, rather than when I'm actually sad. Today, after I tried to tell her she was being obnoxious and she turned it into my problem, I had a crap voice lesson: I was trying not to cry and it was making my throat all tight, all I wanted were some nice easy scales and arpeggios to loosen up my voice and get me into the "singing is fun and therapeutic" zone, but my voice teacher decided to warm me up with some very technical exercises. My voice was tiny and pinched from trying not to cry, I was distracted and kept singing off-pitch, she thought I needed to practice more and kept repeating the difficult things, and if I'd tried to explain what was going on or ask for something simpler, I would've burst into tears for realz. I didn't actually get into good voice until the very end of the lesson when we were sight-reading Mendelssohn.
I know I cry too easily. It's an anxiety and frustration thing for me. I'm just glad my host mother isn't home right now, because I DID get a lecture from her about how I need to grow a thicker skin the one and only time I cried in front of her, when I was sleep-deprived and homesick and she brought up a sensitive subject at the dinner table. If she were home right now and asked me why I was crying I would not trust myself not to punch her in the fucking face.
I tried to call her out on it. Honest to god I fucking did. This morning I was on my way out the door, about to be late for lecture, when she grabs me and lays into me for something or another and I SWEAR TO GOD SHE PINCHED MY CHEEKS. I thought that was only a figure of speech for Christ's sake. Then she had the nerve to ask why I was answering in monosyllables and generally trying to GTFO as fast and as unresponsively as I could, and I told her flat-out that I don't appreciate being scolded like a little kid all the time.
Yeah, so much for trying to get to class on time. That turned into a one-sided lecture about how she didn't think of me as a little kid at all, how I was wrong wrong wrong for getting that impression, and how I needed to get these silly ideas out of my head. With a side helping of how very, very justified she was for upbraiding me about whatever particular thing she was on about that morning. I seriously think she was under the impression that I was only talking about THIS ONE PARTICULAR INCIDENT when I told her not to treat me like a six-year-old anymore.
I want to get out of here. It's gotten to the point where I've stopped doing things. I've stopped eating breakfast because if I don't I only have to deal with her briefly while I'm on my way out the door. I've stopped playing the piano because she bitches at me if I leave the cover open or don't push the piano stool in far enough when I'm done or don't put my music away. I can't practice for voice lessons while she's here because even though she's never been evil enough to criticize my singing, the thought that she might be listening makes my voice wither in my throat. Half of me just wants to avoid her, half of me wants to slap her and track mud all over the carpet and turn my techno up to eleven and slam doors and leave plates of half-eaten food in the living room and all the other bratty things I never did when I was fourteen.
It's starting to spill over into the rest of my life, too. Being carped at on my way out the door every fucking day puts me in a shit-ass mood for the rest of the day. And it doesn't help that I cry when I'm stressed and frustrated, rather than when I'm actually sad. Today, after I tried to tell her she was being obnoxious and she turned it into my problem, I had a crap voice lesson: I was trying not to cry and it was making my throat all tight, all I wanted were some nice easy scales and arpeggios to loosen up my voice and get me into the "singing is fun and therapeutic" zone, but my voice teacher decided to warm me up with some very technical exercises. My voice was tiny and pinched from trying not to cry, I was distracted and kept singing off-pitch, she thought I needed to practice more and kept repeating the difficult things, and if I'd tried to explain what was going on or ask for something simpler, I would've burst into tears for realz. I didn't actually get into good voice until the very end of the lesson when we were sight-reading Mendelssohn.
I know I cry too easily. It's an anxiety and frustration thing for me. I'm just glad my host mother isn't home right now, because I DID get a lecture from her about how I need to grow a thicker skin the one and only time I cried in front of her, when I was sleep-deprived and homesick and she brought up a sensitive subject at the dinner table. If she were home right now and asked me why I was crying I would not trust myself not to punch her in the fucking face.