No, Really - Suck Them.
The more I've replayed Friday's confrontation in my head, the more pissed off I get about it.
Because you know, I really don't give a flying fuck about Joe Blow's ongoing left knee pain making it "impossible" for him to drive a truck, or Jane Doe's persistent low back pain making it "impossible" for her to do light housekeeping work as part of her job. I really think these people ought to take some Aleve, suck it up, and either get a different job or quit their fucking complaining. Because, see, I've got a kid who is 6 years old--a kindergartener--who I don't think has even been outside in almost two weeks. A kid who sits in a room full of other kids and a handful of disinterested, bored adults while a few other adults play drug roulette with him. A kid whose face is a mess of self-inflicted wounds where he's dug at his skin because some of the drugs he's been given make him "itchy," even though his mother warned the drug-prescribing adults this would happen. A kid who seems to be deteriorating right before my very fucking eyes.
Given that--how can I possibly give a flying fuck about how on top of filing I am, or whether or not it takes three days (instead of two) for the assistant attorney general to get a packet of medical records and a settlement demand? How much time can I reasonably spend fretting over the fact I've worked a 36 hour week instead of a 40 hour one? How can I be expected to fucking care how upset a bunch of useless pieces of shit get over the fact their attorney won't return their phone calls?
It reminds me of a night, years and years ago, when my father arrived home from working his second shift job at around half past midnight, only to get word from my mother that we'd had yet another spat, and came down to my basement bedroom to drag me out of bed and up the stairs. They then grilled me in the kitchen for a good hour or more about how my being depressed and moody was "bringing the whole family down" and how they weren't going to put up with it anymore, and how I could either straighten up or find myself on lockdown in the local adolescent psych hospital.
I was 15, and I was depressed and moody (having lived through The Great Depression--my mother's), but I wasn't stupid. I knew in that instant what I had to do. I burst into tears, apologized profusely, and let them think they'd made a breakthrough. In the weeks that followed, I was the Silent and Dutiful Daughter, taking care of my younger siblings, doing all the household chores, cooking the meals for the family (because my mother was too busy locking herself in the bathroom and crying), and doing it all without being asked or told or making a sound. I plastered a smile on my face and kept it there. And when I turned 16 that fall, I got a job--one that paid actual wages--and they saw very little of me for the next year and a half before I graduated and rented an apartment where I could be depressed and moody without offending anyone.
That's how I feel now--like I'm going to have to plaster a smile on my face and go to work and be the Silent and Dutiful Employee and carefully count my hours, the same way I counted the days until my 16th birthday, and pretend everything is hunky-dory in order to keep things from getting worse, much worse.
Because much as I would like to quit my job and bring Bob home, where we can play Drug Roulette in the comfort of his own surroundings with his own bed and no other fucking crazy children and people who actually give a shit about him, the truth of the matter is that, without my income, we would quickly starve. And lose our house. I want to bring him home and take care of him because that's what I'm supposed to do, but I can't, because I have to earn a living so he can eat.
So there's the dilema--insist upon his release immediately, and take the risk of having to spend still more time away from work because he can't last a full day at school, or allow him to continue to rot in what is, essentially, kiddie prison?
The frustration makes me seriously want to break things. A lot of things. Things that make a very soul-satisfying crashing noise when they break. Like light bulbs. Or glassware. Unfortunately, we don't really have much of either.
So tomorrow I'll plaster the smile on my face. I'll get up early and drive downtown to personally deliver the package I was supposed to mail last Thursday to the assistant attorney general (meaning he'll get it on the same fucking day he would have had I mailed it Thursday) and then I'll get to the office hopefully before my normally scheduled start time. Because I want to show just how fucking dedicated I am.
Because you know, I really don't give a flying fuck about Joe Blow's ongoing left knee pain making it "impossible" for him to drive a truck, or Jane Doe's persistent low back pain making it "impossible" for her to do light housekeeping work as part of her job. I really think these people ought to take some Aleve, suck it up, and either get a different job or quit their fucking complaining. Because, see, I've got a kid who is 6 years old--a kindergartener--who I don't think has even been outside in almost two weeks. A kid who sits in a room full of other kids and a handful of disinterested, bored adults while a few other adults play drug roulette with him. A kid whose face is a mess of self-inflicted wounds where he's dug at his skin because some of the drugs he's been given make him "itchy," even though his mother warned the drug-prescribing adults this would happen. A kid who seems to be deteriorating right before my very fucking eyes.
Given that--how can I possibly give a flying fuck about how on top of filing I am, or whether or not it takes three days (instead of two) for the assistant attorney general to get a packet of medical records and a settlement demand? How much time can I reasonably spend fretting over the fact I've worked a 36 hour week instead of a 40 hour one? How can I be expected to fucking care how upset a bunch of useless pieces of shit get over the fact their attorney won't return their phone calls?
It reminds me of a night, years and years ago, when my father arrived home from working his second shift job at around half past midnight, only to get word from my mother that we'd had yet another spat, and came down to my basement bedroom to drag me out of bed and up the stairs. They then grilled me in the kitchen for a good hour or more about how my being depressed and moody was "bringing the whole family down" and how they weren't going to put up with it anymore, and how I could either straighten up or find myself on lockdown in the local adolescent psych hospital.
I was 15, and I was depressed and moody (having lived through The Great Depression--my mother's), but I wasn't stupid. I knew in that instant what I had to do. I burst into tears, apologized profusely, and let them think they'd made a breakthrough. In the weeks that followed, I was the Silent and Dutiful Daughter, taking care of my younger siblings, doing all the household chores, cooking the meals for the family (because my mother was too busy locking herself in the bathroom and crying), and doing it all without being asked or told or making a sound. I plastered a smile on my face and kept it there. And when I turned 16 that fall, I got a job--one that paid actual wages--and they saw very little of me for the next year and a half before I graduated and rented an apartment where I could be depressed and moody without offending anyone.
That's how I feel now--like I'm going to have to plaster a smile on my face and go to work and be the Silent and Dutiful Employee and carefully count my hours, the same way I counted the days until my 16th birthday, and pretend everything is hunky-dory in order to keep things from getting worse, much worse.
Because much as I would like to quit my job and bring Bob home, where we can play Drug Roulette in the comfort of his own surroundings with his own bed and no other fucking crazy children and people who actually give a shit about him, the truth of the matter is that, without my income, we would quickly starve. And lose our house. I want to bring him home and take care of him because that's what I'm supposed to do, but I can't, because I have to earn a living so he can eat.
So there's the dilema--insist upon his release immediately, and take the risk of having to spend still more time away from work because he can't last a full day at school, or allow him to continue to rot in what is, essentially, kiddie prison?
The frustration makes me seriously want to break things. A lot of things. Things that make a very soul-satisfying crashing noise when they break. Like light bulbs. Or glassware. Unfortunately, we don't really have much of either.
So tomorrow I'll plaster the smile on my face. I'll get up early and drive downtown to personally deliver the package I was supposed to mail last Thursday to the assistant attorney general (meaning he'll get it on the same fucking day he would have had I mailed it Thursday) and then I'll get to the office hopefully before my normally scheduled start time. Because I want to show just how fucking dedicated I am.
posted by Mitzi Green at 5:15 PM
2 Comments:
Hang in there. You seem to be getting soooo close to be getting somewhere with Bob. I know how awefull it is to see him in there, but give it a few more days to see if it all finally comes together.
Joanie
How are things going today?
Thinking of you . . .
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