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This Fucking Day

15 Jan

My day was horrible.  Looking back, had I been any younger when this day’s figurative shit hit the fan, I would have declared it the worst day of my life and pondered those suicidal thoughts a bit more seriously than I actually did.

The day began before I went to bed.  I helped mom take care of noisy, spoiled children in the race to get them to school.  I woke to a phone call from my mother, asking me to watch the two biggest culprits for in-home drama and headaches.  The five year old boy, Charlie, hit Janice repeatedly, so I put him in a chair for time out. The chair had arms, and he was short and a little stupid, so I was able to contain him by standing at the one end and just waiting for him to cool down.

When he said he would be nice, I let the kicking, clawing kid go.  He screamed at me to put his shoes on for him, and I refused.  His tantrum helped me concentrate on my previous blog entry.  Charlie put himself to bed, and I kissed his forehead and told him that I loved him.  The silence after was nice, but did little to help me concentrate.

My mom brought James and Eric home, I served dinner, and the house got a little noisier.  James didn’t eat.  I let Charlie sleep, and mom left with Janice.  Eventually, all of the kids got their dinner.  I chose to go without, because I felt too ill to be hungry.  My coughing was becoming more than a mere annoyance, and my nose was a dripping faucet.

Things were calm for a time, until my brother got home.  He seemed fine at first, if a little drunk.  This was far from unusual.  He played with James and Charlie– they loved him.  My brother got a phone call and got himself some dinner, then went downstairs.

Eventually, he came up for seconds.  I overheard something about him spending six hours talking a kid out of suicide.  He still seemed his cheerful self, so I assumed he was not serious.  I continued to chat with my friends online while I ensured the various kids were kept out of trouble.

The next events happened quickly, and I recall them as a mash-up of moments.  Bip began to get very emotional after his second bowl of chili, and I tried to talk to him and comfort him.  He was very restless, and began to wander shortly.  I sat back down and hoped he would find something to help.  Instead, he continued to roam from the office, to his room (shared with Charlie), to the garage.  I kept trying to ask him what was wrong, and he seemed more and more agitated.  Finally, he said he was looking for his cigarette pack because he needed to relax.

I offered to help him search, but he told me no.  I had no idea what to do for him, so I went upstairs.  Charlie was beginning to ask some rather difficult questions.  I tried my best to answer, but my every explanation sounded lame to my own ears.  My brother continued his search, growing more and more angry as he did.  I helped him break into Mom’s room to look for his pack, but it wasn’t there.  I locked the door again and let him roam.

Eric tried to help.  I heard banging and again left my babysitting post to Eric so I could check on my little brother.  I offered an ear, but he was too agitated.  It was a fight for me to avoid crying as well.  I wanted to scold him like Mom would for frightening the children and making a mess.  He broke several things, and when mom got home, she had me call my brother’s friends to come get him.

Among my friends online, some chaos was brewing on two fronts.

On F-list, my main socializing medium, one friend was at odds with another.  I was warned by a couple friends that I might become involved somehow, but thankfully that did not come to pass.

In World of Warcraft, my guild master began asking if he should break up the guild that we all worked hard on.  A rousing cry of ‘no’ answered him, along with two offers from people who played often to take over if he didn’t want it anymore.

As evening came, Mom became tired and went to bed.  I spoke with her for a short time, and she mentioned she needed chicken from the garage freezer, but didn’t want to go out after the storm involving my brother.  I volunteered, thinking it could not have been too bad.

I was wrong.  My brother’s man-cave was torn down, and a toy he was fixing up for Charlie was strewn about, its pieces scattered.  The fridge was blocked off  with foam insulation slats.

My brother had never acted like this before in my knowledge.  He spoke often of being in control of oneself.  Emotions and reactions are a choice.  Don’t let stress get you down.  My brother always seemed so strong and in control.

In truth, I felt betrayed.  I moved the foam slats and got the chicken from the freezer.  I put them in the microwave and went downstairs to the office in the basement.  It was trashed.  Irrational anger bubbled, and I lashed out at the string to the light fixture.  I felt a little better, and went to my room.

Once I was there and situated as comfortably as I could be, despite my rage, illness, and stress, I vented to a friend.  I did not know this friend very long, but I felt like I could trust him.  He knew my biggest ‘secret’ about my internet identity, and he gave zero fucks.  He offered me another point of view, and because of this, I was able to finally let the stress wash away with a good cry and a long bike ride.  I was able to finish that blog post.

This friend is one of several I have met in my lifetime.  This is the type of friend that I admire and try to emulate. I always feel as though I should impress this person, because I feel insecure and unworthy.  He has odd hours, we don’t roleplay nearly enough, and he’s a worse snob than I am, but I admire him for putting up with me, getting shit done, and knowing the difference between who to tolerate bullshit from and who not to.

The day continued on, and I began to get a headache.  Midnight passed, the sun rose, and I helped with children again.

Just as I decided that it would be a good time to go to bed, my brain smacked me with the urge to write all of this out for the entire readership to stare.  So, as I wrote this, my head was throbbing, my nose was dripping, I couldn’t breathe without coughing, and my hands were shaking.

I’m going the fuck to bed.

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Posted by on January 15, 2013 in Nonfiction

 

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