I know I should be angry with myself right now, but I’m not. In fact, this is one of those rare occasions where even the guilt of knowing what I should be feeling still hasn’t managed to break through the apathy. It’s impervious, for the first time in a long while, and I am not sorry.
It started off as a bad day, the continuation of an irritating night. I never slept, but stayed awake well into the morning. I get very annoyed and hostile when I go without sleep, and that’s saying something. I decided it needn’t be an entirely useless day as the past few have been. It was 6:30, barely 20 degrees, and I went for my walk. My mom was feeling ill before I left, and had laid down on the couch to try and rid herself of nausea. She took something for it as well, so I thought nothing of it.
I get back, and she’s still not feeling good. I had promised I would make us something, so I lived up to it, and made a pizza from scratch for lack of anything else to do. While I was working on that, she got no better. When she ate, however, she seemed to be alright. She was sitting up acting normal, so I assumed whatever it was had passed, and that the bread had helped soothe her stomach issues. She has insomnia quite often, and due to her spinal cord injury, it can result in some very bizarre side-effects, that to anyone else would appear to have no connection to sleep loss. But of course, I’ve been through this before, I know the drill. But she feels sick again after awhile and lays back down. I wander away, unconcerned, not even thinking about it.
I’m watching some low-grade horror film while I dye my mess of hair. Which, by the way, went wrong. I bought a different dye (rather, my mom did), simply because it was on sale. It was only when I was opening the package that I realized it might have been a mistake. It says “Now done in ten minutes!” and I groan. My roots are a blondish red now; I’ve lost a lot of the brown I used to have a few years ago, though it is still very auburn, and dye just does not take well. I usually follow the “for a lot of grey” directions, i.e. leaving it on for 10 minutes longer, which generally manages to smother out all traces of my wretched, accursed red hair. Anyway, I apply it, and am disturbed by the fact that it doesn’t seem to be taking while I do the rest of my hair.
My mom comes in, even though she is sick (she just can’t stand to not help; it’s ingrained in her, it seems), and helps me get as much of the red as possible, though we still can’t tell what’s been dyed and what hasn’t. Between her terrible vision and my shitty mirror, we finally relent and assume that it’s going to take. The front does; it turns black. But traces of red are everywhere. I wait out the time, then go to the mirror to check, irritated when I see that the back still hasn’t taken. So I think I waited…20 minutes? The maximum was supposed to be 15…but I digress.
I wash it out, hop out of the shower and get dressed. My hair is toweled; I don’t bother to look at it. And as I’m sitting down to watch some other mundane video, my mom comes into my room again, murmuring, “Something’s wrong”. She’s shaking, can’t stop shaking, in fact. Says she feels freezing, and each shiver sends her into terrible spasms, which for an incomplete quadriplegic, are sheer torture. This is strange, because she is constantly complaining that the house is too hot; that combined with constant hot flashes means she sleeps with a fan on in the dead of winter. So I know that, indeed, something is off.
I make her lay down. She had been fluttering around the kitchen like she always does, obsessive compulsive about keeping it all clean and making sure that when my dad comes home dinner is waiting. But I convince her to come into my room, and set her up in my bed. I’m just the opposite; my heater runs constantly, so my room is a nice, balmy 80 degrees, much better alternative to the icy living-room. I’m not thrilled about her being in my bed; I have a very strong sense of smell and I can always tell when someone has been laying in my blankets. But I decide that if I don’t do something, dad will likely have a nice long talk with me later. Rather not.
My apathy was at its highest peak today. I didn’t feel anything the whole time. I just blinked, stared, getting annoyed by her whimpering. So I left her there and made her hot tea, then gave her a valium. She kept shivering and spasming, and had also developed a high fever. I snorted and walked over to the computer to continue with the waste of a movie. My tiredness was starting to set in, and I began to regret allowing her the bed I could be sleeping in. Yes, this is what the sadistic, apathetic monster thinks about. She also wonders briefly if the color came out right in her hair.
I decided to tend to it, since it was probably dried. I hear her whining even from the bathroom, but I pointedly ignore it. There was a tiny pang of guilt, but it died out as quickly as it came. I know she was in a lot of pain. But I kept thinking to myself that what is life but pain? What do I do everyday by getting up, but endure more of it? Emotions are covered over, buried deep down where they can’t come within miles of me. I start brushing my hair, and finally look up into the mirror. Great. Just fucking brilliant. I want to rip my hair out, but decide against it, instead just brushing rougher and scowling at how useless it all is.
My roots are dark red from the middle of my head to the back. The front came out just fine, since it was on the longest. So now I have black hair with darker red roots for pretty much half of my hair. What a waste of a bottle of dye. I knew that shit was doomed to fail. Thankfully, my apathy extends even toward myself and I just shrug after a moment after I accept reality. Oh well. Yes, I dyed it just in case I do happen to get an interview, and of course, the one time when I need it to look decent, it looks like a five year old dyed my hair for me. But that’s life.
My mom was unwell even after the Valium took effect. But she decided she needed to go to the restroom, and ended up, with much struggling, going back into the living-room. As I’m about to descend into sleepland, after making sure she’s still alive and breathing, I heard her steps in the kitchen. I wanted to growl. My eyes were bloodshot, and I hadn’t slept at all, but I dragged myself out of bed to go reprimand her.
Guess what she’s was doing? Defrosting the meat for dad’s dinner. Sometimes her ignorance is fucking astounding. She asks me why she is sick sometimes, or why she hurts in whatever place, and I ALWAYS know the answer. Because she won’t stop doing things. She won’t sit down and rest like I tell her over and over and over. She has too much faith in me as well. She always expects me to know what’s wrong, to know what’s best. I don’t, I’m not a doctor, and I only know bits and pieces about the human body. I can only guess. But what I do know for certain, is that in her state, overexertion can cause a hell of a lot of problems. She just doesn’t get it, clearly, since she repeatedly gets her neck inflammed terribly from working far too hard.
I don’t hate her. I really don’t. I did, once, when it all happened. I hated her more than I hated myself, and I wished the worst on her because she took what little I had away from me in one single go. I haven’t trusted her, or anyone else since, and I know now that I am likely completely incapable now. But I grew out of it, the hate. I know that she cares more than anyone else does, so I’ll be loyal to her, even if I can’t love her or be sympathetic. But I’ll stand there, be there in that small way, at least, since she usually does it for me.
We’re so different. I wonder sometimes how we can even be related. I know that if we weren’t family, we would never have any reason to be friends. I’m cold where she’s loving, she’s faithful where I’m skeptical and critical, I’m hateful where she’s forgiving. I try, I really do, which is why I no longer berate myself for not being a caring sort of person. My loyalty gives me the illusion of being caring, and so long as people assume that it’s love, it doesn’t matter, I can get away with it without being noticed. I’ve told her I don’t love her, because even as much as I want to lie and pretend that I’m all right in the head, the last thing I want to do is lie about something that important. I’ve told her. But I know she doesn’t believe me. She thinks underneath the moody exterior there is something whole and heroic beneath, but I’ve always been a villain, and with each day, that tiny bit of light that used to be there gets drowned out. I can’t remember the last time I did something that didn’t have fully acknowledged selfish implications. If I do something, I do it for me.
I slept, eventually, after yelling at her to “lay the fuck down”. Dad is home, taking care of it. Off my shoulders now, not that it was ever there to begin with. Though I guess this entry is proof enough that it at least concerned me somewhat, maybe. I can only guess as to whether or not it is actually emotion or conditioning. Like crying at a funeral. I only ever did it because I knew it would look awkward if I didn’t. Girls are supposed to be emotional, supposed to cry, according to distorted societal ideals. I can’t be an emotionless, blank-staring monster. It would be suspicious. I have it ingrained in me to feel bad for doing something deranged, even though I know in my head that there is no such thing as right or wrong.
I’m still tired, and this entry is far too long.