Spent some quality time talking to mom. I’m 32 and I live with her. But we’re Ukrainian so it’s okay. Slavic people live as a family unit all the time, sort of like a lot of Asian families. I don’t know, if native or American.
Talked Harry Potter, why our family is so curse (bemoaning our mutual circumstances, fun with her), how to fulfill me / make my life whole, and a whole lot’a naggin’. She keeps telling me to work on the computer game so we can make it big. She is more tenacious and ambitious than me, my dreams were crushed a long time ago, by dad and the system and my mental illness, but hers lives on despite a dead-end job for like thirty or more years now. I’m amazed at her power. She’s so inspiring. I love her. Family love counts as love, right? Maybe that can be my Valentine’s blessing? Not to get… what’s that Greek tragedy called? Where he screws his mom and gouges his eyes out? Not like that. I like my eyes and it’s strictly familial.
I wish I could talk more to brother but I respect his time. We get time together but not enough going to parks and stuff.
I wish I had more opportunities, but not necessarily more obligation, to talk to my friend Nick. I hope Ashley responds to my response of her response to my original email to her last week.
This fucking stomach ache. I had three glasses of water and 4 Nauzenes. I can’t throw up now because I took my psychotropic medication for the night. At least for another half hour. It’s slow release, unrelated topic.
I’m shivering a little. Out of sensitivity from the stomach.
Life is so full of possibility, and I seldom realize it. I could be learning, doing things, discovering new things. My disease precludes most of that. When I don’t want to do things, which is often, the rest of the time I can’t even. I just can’t. That’s the best explanation I have. It’s too hard I can’t. Read, program, play, learn, anything. I could play sports. That’s about it. Bodily gesticulation good for me.
The stomach ache is changing my tone of voice.
Ugh. Dad is home. He’s making noise in the garage. At least it’s productive. He said he would clear the blockade to mom’s stuff she needs for work tomorrow night. She retires in about two years. I can’t believe she’s so old. Wait, three years? She’s, 63? 64? That’s too old for comfort. We don’t have enough years left together. I don’t like it. I hope she lives to old age. I hope medicine can help. It won’t. Brother is too optimistic about that note. Father used to fix our old cars (that we no longer have) by himself. Not quite engine work, but intermediate difficulty operations. Bought a copy of the repair manual and went to town on it. He was still abusive back then, but he was more normal. He officially lost it for the first time when I was in high school, or middle school. So, still fairly young. In his forties. I’m sorry for him. He absolutely fell apart. He had a few years psychotic, in perpetual fear and mania, in the next house we lived in when I was in high school. I tried to be there for him when I could, but I still got angry at him. It wasn’t fair of me to do so. I wish I could take it back. He loves me to this day. But he slimes up one me from time to time, asks favors of me at the drop of a hat. I don’t know.
Never meeting new people. This blog is a waste. It’s all a waste. Writing is a waste. Journaling is useless and stupid. I don’t know why I do this. I should at least do something that makes me feel better.
Mom’s room wreaked of sewage or chemicals, or in between, I don’t know why. We discussed it. Might’ve been some of the orchid soil rotting or something in the room.
Tired. Should go to sleep soon but probably won’t as slept for three hours induced by opioids.