So...

My Nana died an hour ago. My parents were with her- I wasn't.

It's really hard when you can't stop crying and you're wearing glasses.

Rushed to Surgery

I know I posted about my surgery yesterday but really it's all that's on my mind right now because I'm still really trying to process the fact that it happened.

Because I didn't really get a chance to process it. On Monday, I didn't believe what the doctor was saying as he booked me into surgery and gave me instructions on where to be and who to talk to to get to it. Even as I was talked to by an anesthesiologist it still felt like a dream. It wasn't happening, it wasn't actually going to be a thing. I was ignoring the fact I was in a hospital gown.

But then Dad kissed me on the forehead as they wheeled me off and I half wondered if I should say something just in case one of the really tiny risks I was told about happened but he was gone and I was alone in a room anyway, waiting for the doctor.

I was crying. I'll admit that. I was terrified and no one seemed to notice. Not until I was on the actual table and the really nice nurse was reassuring me that she was going to stay by my side until I fell asleep. I really liked her, she was so nice.

Also I like needles now even less than I did before. The feeling of one going into my right hand was horrible and they seemed fixated on me keeping the stupid thing in there right up until just before I left. It was so stuck down the nurse had trouble getting it out. And I could feel it every time I bent my hand past a certain angle- I started to stop using that hand because the sensation was awful.

But yeah. I don't remember falling asleep, something I'm a bit grateful for as my memories go from being scared in theatre to waking up in recovery. Which is actually an amusing memory to me because I was rambling something awful and it's hilarious. That poor nurse who had to suffer through my talkative self- I am surprised at how many of my questions were something close to logical considering how fuzzy the memories are. I do remembering saying that my friends didn't know I was in surgery, which I later found out was a half lie as my parents had seen fit to blast the fact of my surgery all over Facebook. *sigh*

I could have done without the night spent in hospital. They kept waking me to take my blood pressure to the point where as soon as I was woken, I would stick an arm out to make their job go faster so I could sleep.

And that's a more concise summary of the rushed day that was my surgery.

Faster Than A Speeding Bullet

I had surgery last night at 8pm.

I didn't know I was definitely having surgery until 6pm. It was so fast. I saw my doctor at 1:30pm and was told it was a possibility but until I saw the specialist/surgeon I didn't know it was actually happening.

And surgery is very very scary. Like, people talk over you and around you and it's really really cold. Plus you're terrified because you're going into surgery. Then well, you're in surgery and under the silver light with a needle in your hand...

But the nurse was very nice. She stood really close and stayed there until I fell asleep- something I don't actually remember doing. I went from being awake in Surgery to waking up in Recovery with a vague recollection of dreams (about a character from Homestuck oddly enough but then I've been reading fics for Homestuck a lot recently) and of having woken up before.

I was discharged this morning after a lot of running around by nurses- who took forever to take the cannula out that had been placed in my dominant hand seemingly just to make it really hard to do everything- and sent home which is where I am now.

It's My Fault, Even When It's Not My Fault

I've often complained about my Dad eating my food. He doesn't have any boundaries, if he finds it he eats it. So I hoard food. There's food in so many weird places- I've chocolate in a bag hanging on my door, there's chips hidden in the cupboard under the microwave and there's a cooler bag full of lollies that I've had over a year now. I buy junk food in large amounts, knowing full well I might lose half of it to a hungry father and if I don't, well there's enough food to last me for a looong time.

But Dad hates it. He gets pissed off every time he catches me hoarding food and annoyed when I produce food out of nowhere or when he comes into a room and realises I'm hiding whatever I was eating from him in fear of losing most of it to him. I do share, but cautiously.

So I'm trying not to hoard or at least not to be so obvious about it. But when I don't hide it and he finds it, he eats it. Like he did tonight- he found my Maltesers' show bag from the Easter show and ate half of what was in there.

But I was at work when he did it. My brother informed me of the theft when I got home, and I lost my temper over it. Unfortunately this happened in front of Dad.

And he became upset, saying if I didn't want it eaten I should have hidden it. He then went to bed without making me make him a hot chocolate, thus earning me a lecture from Mum about being understanding of his condition and him in general. And I get it, I really do. But this isn't a new thing, he's never had any respect for my property and it's so hard at the moment to know if what I'm going to say is going to piss him off or not. Sometimes it's like talking to a land mine, with a buried anger just waiting to go off at an unknown provocation. But then other times he's just like he used to be, before. And I forget about the landmine until suddenly it's back again.

I apologised to Dad when he got back up. It's just easier.

Mum said I should go talk to someone about the situation (in general with Dad) and my feelings. But... I don't do well with being open with feelings- just like Dad. I doubt it'll be of any help.

I need to go on exchange so badly. I need to get out of this house. Even if it's only for six months.

ENGLAND HERE I COME!

Well. Not quite yet. But soon! Because I AM GOING ON EXCHANGE.

After much waiting, Exeter has sent me an email confirming that they are offering me a place at their university next semester. I cannot tell you how glad I am to see that email- I've been so worried that I hadn't got it because it was taking so long. A feeling that wasn't helped when I got an email this morning asking for the second page of my application form as it had been lost and was needed.

But then I got it and I'm so HAPPY.

Oh gosh and now there's so much to organise...

But I got!

Cute? Me?

So recently I was talking with a pair of my friends in a chatroom. I've never met these guys personally, we've only chatted in text based rooms (for the most part, I have had Skype and Pokemon phone calls with both) so they've never seen my face. So we got onto the topic of looking a lot like our siblings and one shared a photo of them with their brother. In return, I shared one of my brother and I.

And this person complimented me. Not like, 'Oh you look lovely' but called me beautiful and just described me as genuinely cute. Bemused at the reaction, I shared the rest of the post that photo was from and got called sexy in one of the photos. At this point the other person in the chat joined in, adding her voice to the chorus of me being pretty.

Well, firstly I cannot describe how good it feels to be described as pretty and beautiful and all those things. I don't wear makeup either and the photos were taken by my brother so I can't excuse away the compliments as being based on that or because the photographer was good. They genuinely liked me.

It's made me realise that every compliment I've gotten, mostly from my parents, has always either been about my face- my eyes are gorgeous, my hair looks great- or said with a qualifier. I would be a very pretty girl, if I lost some weight. You just need to lose some weight and you'll be a very pretty girl. Lose a couple of kilos and you'll look lovely.

Which is...not great for confidence. I want to lose weight but I also want to eat chocolate and at the moment that's causing a conflict where I'm not actually losing weight. It's tiring monitoring every bite you eat and often I cannot be bothered. So I've just been living with the idea that I'm not really pretty, I just exist.

And this chat has rocked my world with the idea that that might not be true.

Too Much Information?

Or not enough?

So on the way home from Uni yesterday, my parents and I were discussing me going overseas and what would be needed, etc. Suddenly Mum starts talking well, weirdly. Mentioning there's something else to discuss but we'll have to wait until we're home and away from Dad, who doesn't want to hear this. 

Just so you know, my family has the weirdest approach to so called 'women's issues' I've never seen. I was raised to never so much as mention 'that time of the month' in front of my brother and Dad because they'll get embarrassed and they don't wanna know. I'm learning it's ridiculous, this kind of approach but it's still hard for me to not be embarrassed at the mere thought of the stupid thing. Hell, I can barely name it without feeling icky. So. Not the best approach.

But also, apparently, off topic. I thought this was what Mum was talking about and was really confused because I wasn't aware that it would be an issue? I can deal with it as easily there as I can here? But after a few minutes of confused conversation, Dad finally snapped and told Mum to just come out with it because he's not that stupid. 

And Mum wants me to consider going on the pill. Which is...yeah, okay might be an idea. Idk what the pill does for people and if it'll be any use with the ever forgetful me but sure? I'll consider it. 

Just, there were two reasons Mum wants me to consider it. One being the benefits and the other being it would be, and I quote, "protection" for me "in case something happened". 

And it's times like this that I wish I could talk to my parents about my feelings regarding sex. I replied instantly that I had no intention of spending the night in anybody's bed to which I was told "things happen". If I could talk to them about this, they would know the exact nature of my feelings about the entire thing and that really, I'm very much not interested. But instead I can't so I have to put up with being told that what I think (and feel really) is invalid in the face of their experience.

And I managed to not use the word sex in that entire paragraph. Go me?   

Day Six

It's about halfway through the time my parents are away for and I'm not sure if I miss them or want them to stay away longer.

On the one hand, I'm really enjoying having the house to myself (practically). I can get up when I want or need to, I can do what I want without having to plan around the possibility they'll need or want me to do something. I can get things done in my own time, without worrying they'll think I'm taking too long and do it themselves while grumbling at me.

But on the other hand, it's exhausting being responsible. I don't know if I'm doing things right, or if I'm forgetting to do anything. My brother is a step away from useless, seemingly capable only of remembering to feed himself and occasionally watch the dog. I'm running the house while trying to also get myself back into the swing of uni and I've no idea if I'm letting things slide through the cracks.

I also think I'm lonely. The house is dead quiet and my brother is always in his room. The dog is only good for company half the time and there's only so much my music can do to chase away the quietness. It's nothing like my usual nights, spent sitting beside a sleeping Dad who, while asleep, is still actually there.

I'll handle it. I've not much of a choice really.

(And in other news, I get to see Benedict Cumberbatch in April and maybe (if they don't sell out) get a photograph with him!!!! So excited.)

I'm Sick

Firstly, I am literally sick. My inconsiderate Dad gave me his cold after he refused to cover his mouth when coughing or sneezing. Somehow I am still getting no sympathy- Mum is all about not letting it get me down and fighting through it, which is stupid when all I want to do is stay in bed and not do anything; while Dad keeps trying to make me go do physical activities when I can't actually breath through my nose.

But I am also sick of my parents. I know they're awesome, they do things for me most other parents don't seem to and they never rarely complain but I am really getting tired of them. Dad is home all the time and while I know it's helping him, he can be a bit of an arse sometimes. He loves getting rises from people, never changes his very closed mind and is near impossible to beat in a debate. He's the sort of person who will make sure you don't buy biscuits in the weekly shop then complain that's there's nothing to have with his coffee. Dad will do anything for a friend but he expects so many things to be done for him- and sometimes I can't see the balance. I am his daughter, not his personal slave but occasionally I can't tell the difference.

And Mum. Mum, Mum, Mum. I love her but she's impossible sometimes. She's more open minded than Dad but only to a certain degree and with the idea that her ideas are always right. She's the type of person to watch a heavily dramatised 'reality' t.v show on an issue and think that makes her an expert on it with no one able to call her out on it. Mum's also got a hair trigger temper which does not help anything- I hate having to ask her things because I'm terrified of setting her temper off and I sometimes wonder if it's because it's me? Is that why she yells, because I fail? But then she yells at the computer and I feel better because it's not me. Plus she loves to talk at me about whatever she is watching- often shows I don't like- or things I am not interested in and I have to pretend to listen or risk her anger.

I know I'm being a bit petty but I have to deal with my parents every day. I'm not allowed to hide in my room like my brother did when he was on holidays because that's antisocial so I have to sit in the lounge room and be in the firing line. I know I should go out more, get away from them but I don't want to. I can't make myself go out...there's really only one or two people to go out with and I can't spend every day with them.

I need to go back to uni.

Before I go nuts.  

Forgetful Goldfish and Personal Admissions

An apt description of myself, one I often use. Basically, I need to remember that I do have this blog and it's able to be used instead of just tracking my friend's blogs with it. (Also idk if you read this but I use everyone as my pillow, it's not a sign I still like you. I don't, you're a much better friend than you were unknowing item of my weird crush)

I think that's the problem. I'm a private person really, as much as I like to share. I love telling people about things but not my thoughts. They're my thoughts, I'll keep them to myself thank you. 

Take for instance my last years of primary school/first years of high school. I cried myself to sleep every night, imagining ways I could kill myself (or dreaming of ways the universe would do it for me). I never told anyone, not until earlier this year when I admitted it to both my brother and my best friend, though my best friend got more details. I just did not know how to say it- how does one bring up in a conversation that they have issues planning for the future because, until recently, they didn't believe they would see 18? That for a while there they thought this early death would happen at their own hands? How could I admit that I thought myself too much of a coward to take what I was raised to believe was the coward's way out?

Well, I guess I'm admitting it now. I don't know how many people read this but it's a start. Semi-anonymous settings for the win. 

I'm not ashamed, I don't think. I still get upset when I remember the worse nights, when the only reason I didn't sneak downstairs to swallow every pill in my parents cupboard was imagining my parents' reaction to finding me dead. My fear of hurting them was stronger than my desire to just be dead. I cannot stress how much I just wanted to be dead- it didn't have to be at my own hand and in fact I honestly believed the universe was going to find a way to make me be dead by 18. 

I have no idea how I got out of this way of thinking. I guess one day I went to sleep knowing that I had not imagined my death for an entire week! That I had friends, actual friends, who cared for me and weren't going to tell me they didn't want to hang out with me (Something that has happened to me at least twice). Now when I imagined my death (which I did still do) I imagined their reactions to my death as well as my family's. One more reason to stay. I turned 18, my god I cannot stress how much turning 18 helped. Knowing I had made it, against imagined odds I'll admit but still against odds, was such a huge boost. I have things to live for, some of them silly but most of them not.

I've not imagined myself dying, planning out every detail of how it would happen and how my family would feel, in a very long time. It's a good feeling. Sure I still have gloomy thoughts but never do I go to sleep at night crying after imagining how the car trip tomorrow will kill me.

I think it's fitting I'm seeing 2013 out with this admission. It's something I've wanted to say for a long time but never had the words. I don't know if I've got the words now but it's a start. 

Don't judge me, I'm happy now. 

Lazy

I don't know if the title of this post relates to myself or my father. I'm a lazy bitch, I'm well aware of it. I'm reluctant to do much without a load of motivation and I'm a procrastinator to boot.

But at least I make my own lunch.

Seriously, Dad never makes his own food. He doesn't make his own coffee, he never gets his own drinks. He always has his dinner brought out to him and I've never seen him wash a dish. My brother, mother and I do all those things for him.

Take today- I made soup for lunch and boiled the kettle. After I had sat down and started eating, I was asked to make a coffee for him (which Mum took advantage of and had me make her one too). Never mind the fact there was no water left and I had to reboil the kettle or the fact I was STILL eating. Well, this might be within his rights to request I guess...but not the next thing. An hour or so later he asked what was in the house for lunch. I suggested there was ham for sandwiches- that became a statement of my volunteering to make him sandwiches.

And if I didn't make them, Mum would have and I would be in trouble for being a lazy bitch and not following a simple request.

But it's not. It's something that happens everyday, without fail. Dad is of the opinion my brother and I exist to serve him otherwise why have kids and well, my brother hides in his room to avoid this. But if I hide in my room, I'm being anti-social and I'll be ranted at.

So for now, I guess I'll put up with this kind of shit and just rant about it to my friends.

I wonder if I'll ever feel like I exist to do more than serve people.

Made a Bed to Lie in

Literally.

For the last two years or so I've had a horrible bed. The slats have slowly been falling out of it, snapping in half as the (at least) 15 year old wood rotted. My mattress wasn't much better, the fabric splitting to let the springs dig into my leg through my blankets-though thankfully not through my electric blanket.

Finally, after much complaining to my parents Mum took me out to get a new bed.

She was very restrictive on my choices. I wasn't allowed to have the Disney princess one. I wasn't allowed the race car bed. No bunk bed and nothing too expensive. There was a bed that was also a lounge I liked but the logistics of fitting it into my room (I would have had to move most of the furniture) made me decide not to get it.

The one I picked had drawers under it because I had a bedhead on my previous bed and I was so sad that no one made beds like that anymore so I wanted one with storage space. It was also much higher than my old bed. I did not get a new mattress as my brother had kept the one he had before my parents had brought him a new bed and mattress two years back.

Now, the bed was delivered the next day. In two boxes.

You see where this is going.

It arrived about 10:30am. By midday my brother was up and the pair of us set to work building the bed. First we had to remove the old bed. It took us ten minutes with a hammer, minimal splinters and we were able to save my bedhead!

But then the fun part started. And the screwing jokes. Throughout the day, the amount of screwing jokes reached epic portions. I had never realised you could stick a 'screwing' into so many sentences.

Did you know, the instructions for building a bed are actually rather simple. It's like they think you are an idiot. Rereading that sentence I think I see a problem with it but I'm not going to mention it. In a way, the instructions were like my brother who assumed I was of no use and basically a complete fool. Somehow we managed to get through the first hour of building with little shouting.

And by the end we had built the two drawers. We got bored and had lunch.

After lunch we started on the next step, had a fight and gave up. I ungave up about a half hour later when I realised if I didn't I was sleeping on the floor. My brother returned when there were things to be hammered (with a hammer! Dirty minds).

After much screwing; the realisation that one piece was missing the holes it was supposed to have so it would stay in place and will thus have to be glued in; and finally noticing one piece wasn't put on straight; we had managed to build my bed.

We moved his old mattress onto my bed and then I had to kick him out of it so I could test the new (old) mattress. At this point I went and played games on my computer because it was 6pm and we had been building a bed all day.

The point of this entry? Beds are much more comfortable when the mattress doesn't touch the floor, screwing jokes are always funny and building a bed to lie in is really, really hard work.