My sister has arrived home, back from her month-long sojourn in Seattle, her time in never-land, her hiatus with her new boy.
She really seems to be filled with a great oppressive sadness that just befouls the mood of wherever we are, a great, nagging melancholy that puts me on edge and appears to fill my poor mother with an intense, agonizing remorse, as though she were completely to blame with everything that is wrong with my sister.
I have tried to tell my mother that that is part of the problem, that she has to let go and realize that her daughter is grown, that she is her own person, who must take responsibility for her own life. It seems as though my mother can't see that, can't stop blaming herself, can't stop pouring out the remorse that my sister almost seems to feed on like some sort of emotional vampire, eating up all the pity that my mother has to offer.
And all I see from my sister, the poor hot-house flower, the anti-social misanthrope, so fast to judge anyone else, completely unable to evaluate her own works or worth or whatever with any sort of realistic criteria; her own hyper-critical set of requirements for what it takes to be a worthwhile human being amped up to the nth degree when turned upon herself, so that while other people have only to do the slightest little thing to fail in her eyes and become the object of her great outpourings of derision and maliciousness, when turned to herself, she doesn't even have that slight chance, that thin, tiny little sliver of hope that the rest of the world barely has when under her scrutiny.
I myself cannot imagine being so harshly self-critical, being my own worst enemy, being at one time both the little, picked-on kid on the playground, and simultaneously the bully who beats him up and takes his lunch money, being the very one who stands you up in that grade-school classroom in your own past, in your own mind, standing there, making fun of yourself, pointing and laughing and mocking and hating with such awful close scrutiny every last detail or imperfection.
I really think sometimes that she was dealt an ugly hand by the powers that be, and then I also think that all things considered, it couldn't really be much different than mine, and I seem to have done alright, at least I certainly tell myself that enough that I tend to believe it. And maybe that's the difference between us, maybe I am just kidding myself, maybe a lot of what I do is screwed up, maybe I am hapless at some of the things that I try to undertake, maybe I fuck up a lot and fall flat on my face, and all the while try to act like I know what I'm doing. And maybe she does the same things, but never manages to let herself have that slack, to let herself make those mistakes and take those shots, never gave herself any slack at all, and when she did fall and screw up and eat the shit that the world serves up, she just spiraled down and down and never even managed to get back up.
It makes me sad to see her so, but I truly don't know what I can do, if anything.
I've blathered enough; I've got to go.
She really seems to be filled with a great oppressive sadness that just befouls the mood of wherever we are, a great, nagging melancholy that puts me on edge and appears to fill my poor mother with an intense, agonizing remorse, as though she were completely to blame with everything that is wrong with my sister.
I have tried to tell my mother that that is part of the problem, that she has to let go and realize that her daughter is grown, that she is her own person, who must take responsibility for her own life. It seems as though my mother can't see that, can't stop blaming herself, can't stop pouring out the remorse that my sister almost seems to feed on like some sort of emotional vampire, eating up all the pity that my mother has to offer.
And all I see from my sister, the poor hot-house flower, the anti-social misanthrope, so fast to judge anyone else, completely unable to evaluate her own works or worth or whatever with any sort of realistic criteria; her own hyper-critical set of requirements for what it takes to be a worthwhile human being amped up to the nth degree when turned upon herself, so that while other people have only to do the slightest little thing to fail in her eyes and become the object of her great outpourings of derision and maliciousness, when turned to herself, she doesn't even have that slight chance, that thin, tiny little sliver of hope that the rest of the world barely has when under her scrutiny.
I myself cannot imagine being so harshly self-critical, being my own worst enemy, being at one time both the little, picked-on kid on the playground, and simultaneously the bully who beats him up and takes his lunch money, being the very one who stands you up in that grade-school classroom in your own past, in your own mind, standing there, making fun of yourself, pointing and laughing and mocking and hating with such awful close scrutiny every last detail or imperfection.
I really think sometimes that she was dealt an ugly hand by the powers that be, and then I also think that all things considered, it couldn't really be much different than mine, and I seem to have done alright, at least I certainly tell myself that enough that I tend to believe it. And maybe that's the difference between us, maybe I am just kidding myself, maybe a lot of what I do is screwed up, maybe I am hapless at some of the things that I try to undertake, maybe I fuck up a lot and fall flat on my face, and all the while try to act like I know what I'm doing. And maybe she does the same things, but never manages to let herself have that slack, to let herself make those mistakes and take those shots, never gave herself any slack at all, and when she did fall and screw up and eat the shit that the world serves up, she just spiraled down and down and never even managed to get back up.
It makes me sad to see her so, but I truly don't know what I can do, if anything.
I've blathered enough; I've got to go.
ninjagrrrl:
your profile made me chuckle.