School's Out

And I'm SO BORED.

I only technically finished last Thursday when I submitted my last exam but in reality I've been relaxing since I submitted my final essay for the semester on the 30th. During term there's always a list of things I'll do once I have time, but come break hey there goes all my lists and my motivation to remember what I wanted/needed to do. So I end up bored.

It's not like I've not been trying to keep busy. Every day it's not raining (which is so few recently!) I've been out walking the dogs. Since the 1st I've written over 28,000 words - I realised a few days ago I might as well do NaNoWriMo as I was basically on par with it anyway and right now I'm like, 2-3 days ahead of par. I've listened to Hamilton's soundtrack so much I've practically memorised it and I know as much of his history as I need to. I had drinks with a teacher of mine who retired and I did spend a few nights out with my brother (and his friends) and my family before he went away. I've done things.

But I'm still bored. There's nothing new to take up all my attention and I know most of my friends are still busy with Uni so I'm not going to disturb their study. Work has given me one shift for the whole month which I'm hoping will change come December.

Plus a part of me doesn't want to leave the house. Which I know is a BAD thing and will only serve to make me more bored (and possibly depressed? Spending day in, day out with only my parents will certainly do bad things to my psyche, I'm sure) but I can't counter it.

Exams are over next week. I'm going to try to get out more after that. And I know there's a new T.V show I'm looking forward to coming out on the 20th. Maybe a combination of something to do with my days and something to do with my nights will break this boredom and get me the motivation to remember and do all the things I wanted to in my holidays.

Status Update?

So I've not been posting much (read at all) which is kinda usual. I've noticed I only use this blog when I need to think/talk something out; I'm procrastinating; or I want the RL friends who read this blog to know something but I don't feel comfortable saying it aloud. Which means that I really don't use it that much. Take that as you will.

Right now, my parents are away (for about another week), I have a dog asleep on the floor beside me and the other dog asleep basically on top of me (surprisingly it's Jack who's asleep on me; he's the new rescue dog so I'm flattered he trusts me enough to sleep like this). I got a mark back Tuesday that was a 90 so my Uni work is going well - even if I'm currently procrastinating the next four essays due. I did say I only used this when procrastinating. And I'm finally free of the awful teacher of the most useless subject I've ever taken. Somehow, something happened and the faculty replaced her in Week 11 of 13 with a competent teacher. An entertaining and engaging competent teacher. I'd have settled for competent! Not to say she wasn't a nice person - she was quite nice - just an awful teacher with an ah... interesting teaching style. I've complained about her so much I'm sure half my friends hate her as much as I do just because I won't shut up about her!

I also have a new job which I'm looking to start after Uni term has finished which is just the most perfect timing ever. I'm also managing to lose weight again and I've started to get annoyed at myself when I can't/don't do my daily walk. I've come a long way from hating the twice weekly 30 minute walks - now I find anything under an hour to be really quite short and not worth bothering with and I'm doing that at least five times a week. Exercise is now... fun? Just not running. Walking is fine. The dogs love me for it at least.

So basically life is good?

Life is good.

And just you wait. My parents will come back next week and I'll be so annoyed. It's been peaceful and lovely without them here. Even if I've had to adult so much; I'm liking the feeling. And the control. I'm going to hate giving it back.

But that's next week's problem.

Temper, Temper

I'm getting sick and tired of bearing the brunt of my mother's temper. It seems like at least once a week (and never on the days I have Uni) I'm woken by Mum losing it at something or someone and just generally making a load of noise that's impossible to sleep through. But when I get up I have to sit in the same room as her and listen to her lose it and I'm just so sick of it. And it's not always just in the morning. She loses it whenever things don't work out as she planned or something breaks or fails to work and it's tiring.

It's not that her anger isn't (usually) justified. But it's always loud and over the top. Sure, yelling at the computer for not working feels good but it's not actually helping and I'm the poor sod sitting two metres away listening to it.

She complains at me like I'm capable of fixing every single problem she has; and sure I get venting but venting about something I've just heard you vent about? Not helping. And she's just. So loud. I spend most of the time she's angry wanting to leave the room... I'm scared, honestly and I spend a lot of the time apologising because maybe that'll make her calm down and stop being angry. And she's not even yelling at me! Just in my general direction.

I just want it to stop. The end of the month can't come quick enough. A month without her (and Dad), no matter how much responsibly I have to take on, sounds amazing.

I'm Not Scared Of You

So my Dad lost it last night. He's been having issues recently with a tooth of his, possibly one that's got some kind of cap on it, I'm not sure. Either way, it fell out last night while he was in his lounge chair and went down the side of the chair. I was in the room when it happened and Dad's first reaction was to try and get the tooth back.

It stayed his only reaction for nearly an hour and a half. He turned the chair upside down and sideways; checked out the bin beside the lounge and then turned the chair upside down again. And then he felt inside the lounge again.

That's not the worst of it. Dad basically got within minutes of ripping apart our lounge chair in search of this tiny, tiny tooth. My brother was at work but Mum and I were recruited into helping - despite me being busy working on an essay I just submitted. At one point I escaped the room to take the garbage out and got caught up taking the neighbour's dog home so that took nearly twenty minutes. I came back to them still looking. Dad was completely losing it, calling himself all kinds of names and basically thinking he's the worst person alive for losing a tooth. It was definitely an overreaction and both Mum and I were upset -Mum at the fact Dad was willing to destroy our lounge chair; me because everyone else was upset and that tends to make me feel the same. I was also upset because some of the things Dad was saying about himself were awful and I just do not like hearing him talk like that. I cannot handle conflict really.

Eventually Mum and I managed to convince Dad to give up, though not with words but with lack of helpful action. We settled back into our places and wouldn't you know it? Dad found the damned tooth an hour later, somewhere in the lounge.

But that's all background. I found out today, from Mum, that Dad thought I was scared of him last night. See, like I said, I can't handle conflict, especially anger. And my answer to conflict is to remove myself from it. I remember a time in high school that I had a fight with a good friend - my only fight with her in memory- and as soon as I realised being angry was making me cry I removed myself from the situation and hid in a bathroom to cry myself out. I do not like to be present when someone is getting angry and I can't help. Especially not my parents.

So removing myself has nothing to do with being scared of the person who is angry but is my natural reaction to someone being angry. Last night I was not scared of Dad, just upset at his reaction.

And I started thinking. And I realised I've never been scared of my Dad. I mean, I've been scared of his reaction in that I feared the consequences he was going to give me for actions I've done but I've never feared for my safety when he's been present- even when angry, I know he won't hurt me though I'm not fond of being yelled at by him. Which is what I think he thinks I was scared of. He's apologised for his actions last night and I tried to make sure he realises I understood and wasn't scared but I don't know if it was clear.

But the idea that he could ever think I feared him is as upsetting a thought as the memory of his overreaction last night was. I don't want him to think I'm scared of him, he's one of the kindest men I know (with some of the worst politics around but no one is perfect) and I know how much he beats himself up over things. But I just do not have the words to reassure him, especially as I'm not sure he knows, I know what he told Mum about thinking I might be scared of him.

It's a bit of a mess really.

It Happened

I'm 21.

I know it shouldn't be a huge deal; it's just another year. But I lived so long believing I wouldn't reach my 18th birthday that to reach my 21st is just beyond comprehension. I don't feel older or different...

But I'm alive. I made it. Go me.

It's also kinda bitter for me that Nana isn't here. While I am...not happy but relieved maybe, that she's not suffering anymore, it had always been a fact of life for me that if I lived to see 21, she would be there for it. She was a fact of life and it's still sinking in that she's not here to be a fact anymore. Even when my parents (and her and Grandma) had said their being here to see this day was unlikely, I'd always figured they were being silly.

Guess they weren't.

Grandma is still here. She wasn't at my birthday dinner as I wasn't subjecting anyone including her to that experience but I did drop in on her today. ...Mostly because she was driving Dad nuts every moment I spent away from her but I did see her. She made it.

Though the rate she's going someone I love will kill her before my brother's 21st. Twenty minutes is not an hour and fifteen calls in a day is not reasonable. Dementia is evil.

But anyway. Today was good and I have enough keys to open any door...well any tiny lock at least.

Walking On Graves

Friday I had lunch with my Grandma as she wasn't coming to my 21st (which she didn't know about) and in exchange for not having her there I'd promised my parents I'd take her out with just me. Because she tends to make scenes when she's in groups eating out and doesn't get enough attention and I was willing to do anything to avoid that at my party.

But before we went to the place I'd picked for lunch, she asked me to stop at the nearby graveyard. It'd been a while since she had gone to this graveyard and she wanted to visit Jack. 

My Granddad. 

I'm sure I've been to his grave. Possibly more than once as it is literally down the road from my surf club. But I don't recall going and as he died when I was five it's not like I remember him. So this was basically my first time seeing it. But first we had to find it which with my Grandma's memory was like trying to find a needle in a bunch of other needles. The only hint I had was that it was facing the other way to most of the other graves as she kept telling me they were all wrong and had been moved.

I found it because I saw my Dad's name on a grave. 

Which, okay logically to be expected. I know my Dad is the third man in his family in a row to have the same first, middle and (of course) last names. I know this. I'm well aware my brother is the first firstborn son to escape having his father's name for generations.

But it's another thing to see your Dad's name on a grave and not be surprised. There wasn't even anything to indicate Granddad was 'the second' of his name. Just Dad's name on the grave, with my Granddad's dates. It was vaguely disconcerting but Grandma (of course) didn't seem to notice. She's used to it. 

I'm not, mostly because I do not know the man who is buried there. I mean, I have a vague memory of him but only that and well, my Dad doesn't talk about his Dad much. Not like Mum with her Dad. So I never got the chance to know about him from stories- only what my Mum tells me and she always talks more of Grandma than Granddad. He's a figure on paper but not real to me like my other grandparents.

Like Dad, whose name it was I saw on that grave. 

Romeo and Juliet

No, not my budgies but apparently my parents? It seems my parent's marriage has more than one version of a Romeo and Juliet story, something I found out today. Minus the dying at the end. There's no dying. Just a bit of feuding.

First, the story I know so well is that my parents come from different religions. Dad's Catholic, Mum is Church of England (so Protestant). Neither are practicing but both have (had) mothers who are more religious than their children. So while neither family disagreed with them getting married, when it came to picking a church for the wedding well... It got complicated. Both mothers refused to set foot in the other's church.

It was solved with a deal, that my parents would marry in my mother's church and christen any kids in my father's. From what I had always heard, this was the biggest issue regarding setting up the wedding and was solved with a minimum of feuding.

But now I found out there was more feuding than this. Completely unrelated but still feuding.

Firstly, some family relations- My mother has 3 brothers, the oldest of whom is my Uncle P. My father has like, a whole bunch of uncles, the one I know most about being my (Great) Uncle T. These are the main players in this feud.

So before the wedding- but after my parents had met, my Uncle T and his brother tried to go into business together. They set it up and needed a loan. This is where my Uncle P came into it. He was a bank manager at the time, in charge of the loan division.

I'm sure you can see where this is going.

Uncle T went to Uncle P's bank. A very weird thing as they didn't live in the same areas. Uncle P refused the loan and well... Uncle T didn't take it well. At all. Especially when he couldn't get a loan from anyone else as he'd been refused at the bank and his business went under, costing him a whole lot of money and his (already bad) relationship with his brother. He wasn't bankrupted but I'm told it was close.

He blamed Uncle P. Loudly. And with threats of suing. Uncle P thought him an idiot and hot head, which he wasn't shy about sharing around. Especially as Uncle P had to step out of his position for a while due to the fuss Uncle T was raising.

When my mother put the pieces together while organising the wedding and realised that hot head her brother was complaining about was the Uncle of her future husband who also wasn't pleased with this nitwit of a banker well... it wasn't a great day. From what I've heard they had to be separated at the wedding so they didn't even see another. Everyone had to keep silent about it (which is why I've not heard about it before my Mum mentioned that my Uncle P ruined my Uncle T today) and we've never had a family thing with both sides of the family there.

So just when I thought I'd heard all of Mum's family history stories, she comes up with this really interesting one! And okay, the Romeo and Juliet comparison is reaching but idk about what other romance story fits.