The Daughter
Something that I hate is being called lazy. And that I think stems from shame as well. From the conviction that I AM those things my ex called me: a moocher, a lazy bum, unmotivated. Or, even more simply put by my mother: just plain lazy.
“When are you going to wash that?” My mom is on the couch, and I’m at the kitchen table in front of my laptop, working.
I'm overwhelmed. Every time I get interrupted I feel rage course through my veins. I reign in my temper. Try not to snap at my child. Or my brother. Or my mother.
“Are you going to leave it forever? It doesn't take long”
“I know. I have one.” I try to remember what I was doing, “I had to scrub mine with kosher salt and a halved potato to get rid of the rust “
“But if you just wash it and put it on the stove to dry it won't rust,” she says calmly.
“I know. I have one,” I repeat, then pull my eyes away from the screen to look at my child, who is calling me repeatedly. I'm holding my breath. It's the opposite of what I'm supposed to do, but in the moment, I don't notice. My body is tense. My shoulders are hunched up near my ears.
“Look at this!”Child says, and slurps spaghetti.
“Well did you forget? Or was it just laziness?”
My back aches from the tension. Not my lower back, but the middle bit, the muscles behind my lungs. I don't answer. My child is still asking me to look at the spaghetti slurping and asking if it’s fast or slow, but asking me to say fast if I say slow. I don't answer my mother. I no longer remember what I was working on.
“I've never forgotten,” she continues, unaware of what’s going on inside of my body.
“Well, you're not sick in the head like me,” I snap, a lot softer than I want to. I'm surprised I said anything at all. These days, my way of getting through each day is to disclose as little as possible about myself, my life, and especially my feelings. I don't want any interactions. I don't want more stress. I don't want anything to be harder than it already is, because it already feels impossible.
My brother makes a comment about hitting me with the pan. Or maybe it was my mother, once my brother had repeated my comment to her. They're too alike for my memory to distinguish them sometimes.
“You can't blame your illness for everything!” My mother chides.
Well, seeing as how it feels like a constant crippling weight now that I'm unmedicated, uninsured, and without a therapist in a high-stress, uncomfortable situation from which my body wants to either flee or claw through everything in sight in a blind rage and yet I somehow do the impossible and keep myself from doing either, then yes, mother. Yes, I think I can blame my “illness” for lacking both the presence of mind and motivation to wash the damn pan.
“I'll buy you a new one,” I say without thinking, eyes moving back to the computer screen, my right leg bouncing a mile a minute.
“That’s ridiculous.” She says and repeats the statement about it not being that hard. Then: “I think it's just laziness.”
I feel her looking at me. I don't look back. I just sigh, then turn away from my screen once again and tell my toddler to yes, please, slurp the spaghetti fast not slow.
