everyone hates me
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@riotousflux
everyone hates me
The Call
It was around 1 o'clock in the afternoon when his phone rang from the pocket of his work pants. He looked to see an unknown number calling, and thought for a moment before deciding to pickup.
"Hey," a familiar voice, but alien in tone, chimed in his ears, "Make sure he's okay. Take good care of him. I'm making the call, now, while there is still time. Goodbye, brother, and good luck."
The phone disconnected the call from the other end and he rocked there, frozen to the spot where he stood in the checkout lane. His heart was pounding in his chest, up into his throat, threatening to strangle him, or burst altogether. He dropped his basket of items and they clattered to the ground loudly. He ignored staff and customers alike as they gave him their full attention, looking flustered as he pushed himself past the line and out the front doors. He inhaled swiftly, and the phone reemerged from his pocket. He dialed frantically.
"Hello?" A customer-service-tone answers, unbothered and calm.
"Are you at work??" He sputtered, then began pacing wildly on the sidewalk near his car, determining whether speeding anywhere would be fast enough, "Never mind! It doesn't matter! You have to warn them, they aren't safe! She's coming to kill you guys!! Please-"
"James?" The voice was more aware now, less contented, and that was good, "James, is that really you?"
"Yes! Yes, fine, it's me!! Please, she's already on her way, she just called me! Are you home or not??"
"Well, no, I'm- James, what is going on? Are you okay? Should I... call someone?" The voice has reentered customer-calm and that's a bad sign. There's no time for calm.
Fuck, he swore to himself, and disconnected the call. He went into his contacts and unblocked a number. He dialed, hesitated, sent the call through, and held his breath.
One ring. Shit. Two rings. Fuck, come on, answer. He felt delirious as he charged into his car and sped out of the parking lot, nearly wrecking into a pole that was slightly bent already from some other long forgotten emergency. He wondered if that person had had any luck in their desperation, or if he was just as doomed as anyone. He had never felt so much panic as he did driving toward his mother's house now.
On the third ring, a pause, then, "Hey." That alien voice, that strange familiarity, that sickening calm.
"Stop this. Francis, please. We can work this out, they can change, please just don't-"
A very loud noise. He was sure a gun was fired. His heart was about to make good on it's threat to end him when another noise happened. A small voice was talking, a shaking voice, a crying voice. He nearly didn't recognize it with its edges tinted with age.
"Sweetheart, please, don't-" The small voice was pleading, kindly, and quietly.
"I have to make it stop," Francis' voice now, determined and full of an ancient rage, ", I have to make YOU stop. Forever. For all of them. I couldn't protect them then, I was just little, but I can now. I HAVE TO now!"
Another loud noise, and he's on the highway, but he can't possibly make it in time. There's no time. Crying and pleading followed the noise and a feral sounding screaming that could only be Francis emanated. He put the phone on speaker, and tried frantically to speak over the noise.
"FRANCIS, I KNOW YOU DON'T WANT TO DO THIS! YOU CAN STOP NOW! THIS ISN'T YOU! SHE CAN'T MAKE YOU DO THIS ANYMORE!"
"SHE'S IN MY HEAD!!!" Francis shrieks, sounding less and less human, "I'M NOTHING! I'M NOTHING! I'M NOTHING!"
The screaming continued as he drove madly, weaving between cars and trucks, being honked at or flipped off at every turn. It didn't matter. There was no time. If he could just keep her talking, maybe she would see reason. Or he could at least get there in time. He prayed that his father had called the police. He begged them to show up while he was still on the phone, bust down the doors, day saved.
Tears, hot and hectic, flooded his cheeks as he whimpered miserably, "Franny, please" his voice was the alien one to him now, and he felt like a thirteen-year-old again, "Please keep trying. Please don't give up. I need you to be okay."
Silence underscored his whimpering and made it feel louder than his own thoughts. He choked out sputtering cries and sobs as he sped into his old hometown, so close now.
"Because it wasn't you who should've protected me! I should have been there for you, Franny. I'm sorry! I was scared! I know you were, too! I'm sorry, Franny! Please, just put down the gun! Just stop this right now, please." He felt useless, feeble, tiny. It felt like the car was moving on its own and he was back standing in the checkout line, previously oblivious to this... this... disaster.
More silence. He willed his heart to continue beating in the moments of quiet, trying to hear anything. A noise, a whimper, anything. Then, finally, movement. Feet shuffling about, probably near the phone, then more quiet. He could hear breathing. Someone had picked up the phone and sounded to be walking with it.
"Hello?" He almost couldn't get the word out, "Are... Is anyone still there??"
"No talk!" A young man's voice, sounding perturbed.
"Jim!" He gasped the name and reeled, "Jim, what's happening?"
Fuck, James thought to himself, with some cruelty. How exactly was Jim meant to respond?
"Hey, buddy," He tried for a softer tone, a calm tone, "You okay? Where's mom and Fran, bud?"
He was trying not to ask too much all at once, but he was almost to their road and panicking. He forced himself to wait a few seconds to see if Jim would say anything. No response, no such luck, but still the persistent breathing noise. That was enough for James, that was plenty.
His truck barreled over the drive's curb and he was sure he'd bent his axle. None of it mattered. Outside the home, he saw Jim standing alone with the dogs, one hand holding the phone, the other holding a revolver. James felt the breath escape his lungs and before he could even turn the keys of his truck, he'd launched himself out of the driver's side door and was rushing over to Jim.
Big Jim, they used to call him. He was the youngest but he still stood a head and shoulders above everyone else. He even stood taller than James when he stooped, as he was doing now. Jim looked concerned, but no more than usual. Jim didn't like getting visitors, and it had been years since James had made the trip. He suddenly wished it were under better circumstances.
"Can I have that?" James pointed to the gun in Jim's hand, which eclipsed the weapon in size.
Jim regarded it with some curiosity before reluctantly handing it to James, then going back to picking up and throwing the ball for his dogs. James decided now would be a good time to check that the authorities had been informed of the situation, not just because he was afraid to go into the house alone, though that definitely held sway. When he went to dial, a police siren had began wailing down the street, and before he could complete the call, they were there at the house.
Everything felt blurry from there for James. He watched armed officers charge the door to the house down and enter with their weapons drawn. He felt the police officer relieving him of the revolver and loading it into an evidence bag. He was aware that the officer was asking him questions. He couldn't feel his toes and he felt like he was underwater, watching everything happen slowly around him. A social worker eventually showed up and began discussing care.
"You'll have to discuss that with my father," He said dazed, and felt himself sort of floating outside of his body.
The officers glanced to each other. One looked visibly uncomfortable and the other took on a very serious look, and stepped forward, as if confiding in James.
"I'm sorry, but, your father had apparently decided to drive here after he called us, though we advised him not to become involved. From what we can tell, he was the first victim. I'm very sorry, sir-"
James was sure the officer had continued talking but it was like his ears had filled with ocean water. Everything was coming through jumbled and muted. That didn't make sense. He had just spoken to his father, and he didn't seem concerned at all. He thought for a moment. Tried to remember. Remember the call he made earlier. Had his father even picked up? Had James hallucinated that?
A vision entered his mind of a gun to the back of his father's head as he calmly answered his cell phone, and James tried to shake it away. He couldn't, though, and he was convinced his father died trying to save James from the same fate. Had he known that James wouldn't be there in time? Could James have saved him had he just stayed talking to him? Did he seal his father's fate when he hung up that call?
In the weeks that followed, James' whole life changed significantly. In order to care for his younger brother full time, he quit his job as a landscaper, as the hours and hard labor left him too exhausted to attend to Jim. His wife took on a part time job and made up a room for Jim to stay while they looked into appropriate housing and care programs. She seemed happy to fill the room where they had planned to keep a child, but had never been able to conceive. She delighted in his care, and James felt like he saw Jim coming out of his shell more than ever before.
James visited the graves of his parents often, sometimes seeing them more frequently than he had in their living years. Somehow it was much easier to talk to them now that they didn't respond. He'd take pictures and show them, sometimes leaving behind tokens of Jim's outings or adventures. Sometimes he would simply weep at their headstones until he felt too tired to continue. He couldn't, however, bring himself to visit his sister, Francis.
In her attempt to end her own life, after taking those of each of her parents, Francis ultimately failed. She lived, though not the same as she had before. Her bright eyes were dulled by medications galore, her jaw often slack and drooling from the heavy dosages. The hospital where she permanently lived without possibility of release was a depressing place with too little help and too many patients, and the one time he went to visit, they said after hours of waiting that she was having a bad day, and it wouldn't be possible to see her.
He had decided after that not to attempt another visit. He realized that Franny was really gone, the bright spirit that had kept him motivated to live was burnt out like an old candle, sitting on a shelf and collecting dust. The things he loved about his sister were forever gone from her after decades of abuse had corrupted her. Sometimes he would wonder aloud if he had been somehow stronger than her, or if she'd had it worse than any of them. He remembered in the darkest nights of winter, when he was alone, the words she would whisper to him in their shared room some nights when she thought he was already asleep.
One in particular seemed to want to be felt more than others, wanted to be remembered and ruminated on endlessly. It was a night where they'd been sent to bed early with no dinner, and mom had been particularly hard on Franny. At the time, this seemed commonplace to James, who saw that mom was a little harder on Francis for whatever reasons. He assumed it was fair, because, why would a mother be unfair? That night, he recalled, she said something quite strange once she was sure nobody would hear her. Though, he certainly had.
"One day this won't matter. Because I'll be dead. And they'll be dead. And this won't even matter."
Did she think they had to be dead, so it wouldn't hurt? He had heard their mother chiding her for overeating again, and even at that age felt it was a harsh way to talk about it. He had been chubby around that age, too, and they had sort of mentioned it to him, but not like this. They always assured him he would grow out of it, not to worry and to be happy with himself. When they would talk to Francis, though, it wasn't the same story. Franny wasn't supposed to like herself or her body how it was, and was supposed to always be trying to look good for others. Mom would dress her in uncomfortable hosiery and dressings that made her squirm and fuss and itch. The same clothes she bought for him, Franny would get in trouble for wearing.
These thoughts wouldn't leave him. He'd stay up late at night turning the pieces of his past over in his head, trying to understand how they fit together. Why did Francis lose her mind, and why didn't James or Jim? Yes, James had certainly had his fair share of rows with his parents, and they even became estranged. He knew they'd never had a perfect relationship, but he chalked it up to generational differences and moved on. It felt like Francis was incapable of such things as moving on. She held grudges like they were a horse's reigns, desperate not to fall off and forget why she was mad.
This wasn't unlike how their own mother had behaved, however, as she often brought up past strife even if things were going well. She didn't like to let people forget their slights toward her, regardless of how much time had passed. Franny was inevitably and inextricably the same, in that she couldn't let things go. She'd hold onto it, name it, give it a place to live in her mind rent-free, and never evict it. She kept them like people keep tchotchkes on their mantles, lovingly preserved for all time.
So, maybe that was why, but it left James unsettled even so. And that unsettling could have quite possibly become his undoing if he had ruminated on it in the same way. He was sufficiently convinced, and perhaps needed to be, that letting this go would allow him to live again.
Celebrating Pride
I've always known I had crushes on girls and boys alike, and that I preferred boys clothes to girls on just about any occasion. Even when my cousin was getting married, my parents knew they'd need to bring comfortable pants and a T-shirt for their only girl, because otherwise I'd have probably stripped down to my skivvies like the girl in Fried Green Tomatoes. That girl and I would grow more in common as I grew older and wiser, and I would go on to feel more akin to that character than to my own relatives.
You see, in the movie Fried Green Tomatoes, the tomboy character falls for her late brother's girlfriend. It was one of the first movies that featured anything even remotely near a queer romance that my parents had not only allowed me to see, but that they said they also loved. I was given the impression that they were inclusive of the queer community, even though neither of my parents identified as queer.
When I shaved my hair short for the first time I was sharply reminded that being different would draw negative attention from strangers and family alike. Being queer was okay for some people, but not for *our* daughter. My parents laughed and asked if people thought I had cancer. A cruel joke to make in any respect, but for someone just beginning to come to terms with her identity, it was a blow that knocked my ass to the ground. I repressed any feelings of homosexuality that crossed my mind, avoided physical contact with my female peers and threw myself at any guy that looked at me twice. Anything to avoid my parents' harsh opinions. My father had taken to calling the dogs "disgusting lesbians" because the larger one would groom the smaller one (who couldn't reach her own bits, a service I considered noble) and it apparently was enough to cause him severe upset. It wasn't often that my father lost his temper or became uneven in his keel, but when he was forced to acknowledge people who were truly different from him, it really rocked his boat. A usually funny and easygoing guy would turn elitist in a flash when you mentioned politics.
And so, I often found myself indulging in their long-winded explanations of what women should be and do and have. I would then grow into an adult woman and those words echoed around in my head. Things like, "A woman needs a man to take care of her" and, "Gay people can't have kids" were seared into my memory as I entered my adulthood and college age. When the man I was engaged to and living with assaulted me, I was already having complicated feelings surrounding my sexuality, so much so that I had gone to my doctor. I was willing to seek medical attention over my lack of sexual interest in men. I was so severely in denial about my sexuality that I was not longer able to feel romance or sensuality. I became numb to my own emotions, dropped out of college, moved away and jumped into a new relationship with yet another abusive man. And, I'm sorry to say, that wasn't even close to when I actually came around to my own feelings, or the last time I had to leave an abusive man.
If we fast forward a bit, we see that I meet my husband, yes, he's a man but only technically. You see, I hit the jackpot, and found a non-gender-conforming individual like myself. He currently identifies as he/they but we are both very fluid and sometimes feel more feminine or masculine. He knows I'm bisexual and we have a very passionate love life. He introduced a policy of "fuck yes or fuck no", which encourages enthusiastic consent and open communication. They are the first partner I have ever been with who doesn't identify as a straight male, and also the only person I've been with who I feel actually sees me as I am and accepts me. Whether I'm in their clothes or mine, I'm sexy. Short hair or long, looking good babe. Hair on your legs and in your pits? Love it.
The best decision I ever made was to accept my own sexuality and be honest with myself about it. The second best thing I did was to marry a partner who saw the person I was trying not to be, and who encouraged me to pursue my own identity. Because now, I have a kid who tells me they are gay and they are proud. That they love themselves for who they are, and that they know exactly who that is. She stands up for herself and for others, she has a strong sense of morality and honesty, and she wants more than anything to be married to a woman when she grows up. I'll be damned if I let anyone take that away from her.
So I am celebrating Pride and I am doing it proudly. For my daughter, for my partner and for my nation. I'm doing it for the kids whose parents won't celebrate them, even though they absolutely should.
Though it isn't Pride Month anymore, these words are helping me reclaim my pride year round. I'm proud of how far I've come and the support I'm providing my family.
Mom. I love you. You were the one who showed me to love to poor and the disabled. You are a good person. I wish you the happiest of birthdays because I love that you were born. You make me laugh and smile and be giddy with joy. Oh but you frustrate me too. Because I see the beauty in your broken pieces and you're dismissive or you hate them. I love every part of you and maybe that's why we don't get along so well. I don't damn anything you have done, I applaud it. I seek you out as the champion, the hero, the Savior. Your parents should have not just wanted you, but praised you for being. You are heaven sent and yet these people don't appreciate you?? Damn them! And shame! You are the light of this earth. You are my very essence immortal you are my being, incomplete.
"Well Wishes"
<<continued>>
Lisa ran her sweaty hands down the front of her dress, cursing the wrinkles that had formed in the hot car ride over. A bead of sweat rolled down her red cheek and she cursed that too, swiping it away with the harried movement of someone dismantling a bomb. She took several shallow breaths and forced them out raggedly as she stared out over the dirt road leading to the main road outside of her parent's farm house. No, she thought, my farm house, isn't it? A bitter anger crept up her legs to her stomach, ancient and unrelenting. She tightly shut her eyes to the miserable looking road, long and winding, and thought of her sweet little cottage off the coast that sat miles from this hellscape. The breeze throwing salty water sprays against her skin and hearing the waves lapping the tall rocks. For a moment, when she inhaled, she could have sworn the air smelled of the familiar sand and surf, cold and refreshing. She startled at the horn honking at the main road, and as she sucked in another ragged breath of hot, stinky air, she saw her older brother's work truck rounding onto the edge of the drive. With a sharp exhale, she gave her hands one last wipe down the front of her flowery summer dress and hissed to herself, "showtime".
<<to be continued>>
"Well Wishes"
<<continued>>
She'd been ever-curious about his siblings and why he didn't talk to them. She had asked him once, just once, why he didn't have contact with his siblings. Parents, she didn't feel she needed to ask, what with the complicated feelings people often have for their parents as their relationship changes with age, but she still questioned, why not talk to your siblings? Were they bad people or something? He had laughed at the question, which had relieved her in some way of the guilt she felt for asking. He explained, no, they were all fine people. With his sister, he had said, it was complicated because she was diagnosed bipolar when they were teenagers and that their relationship had been somewhat unstable since then. So, he avoided conflict with her by avoiding her altogether. Janey thought that sounded reasonable, even if she did have more questions now than ever. She decided not to ask those questions, however, when he pivoted to his brother.
"I can't talk to him, or, rather-", he paused, searching for the right words," He can't respond back and that makes conversation somewhat impossible. He's nonverbal autistic."
Janey was somewhat shocked when she heard this, as Michael had never mentioned autism in his family. From what Janey knew, it could be difficult to navigate childhood with an autistic sibling, so she figured he would have mentioned, heck, even complained about it more. But, he said, he had made peace a long time ago with his little brother's limitations and didn't feel like forcing him to try to communicate would have helped or benefitted either person. This also made a lot of sense to Janey, even if it made her feel sort of sad to think about not being able to talk or to be avoided because she was difficult. Some strange, uneasy feeling came over Janey remembering the conversation now as the cab filled with tension and trees passed in a blur of greens, reds and purples.
"Well," Janey said firmly and with a forced cheeriness, "I'm excited to meet everyone. Especially my niece! I can't believe I've never met her in person! I'm gonna do all the auntie stuff with her."
"Auntie stuff?" This, at least, got a wry chuckle from her husband, "What's that?"
"Oh, you know! All that stuff, like girl talk and shopping!"
Again, Michael looked like he was lost to twenty years ago, stuck in some other conversation in the past. Janey pinched his arm and winked at him when he shot her a curious look. This got the full Michael laugh treatment, and the sick feeling in Janey's gut lightened, as her husband's demeanor found its way back to the amiable, lovable guy she knew so well. He slapped a hand on her thigh and smiled at her with gleaming, grateful eyes as the car approached the driveway of the farm house.
<<to be continued>>
"Well Wishes"
Michael hadn't travelled this road in years, decades actually, and still he felt he was driving home. The eerie feeling of your heart getting closer to its origins is unlike anything else. For Michael, it was a sickly feeling in his gut that made him want to pull the car over and be sick right there on the side of the state route. Maybe Janey could tell he was feeling this, as she always seemed so in tune with his feelings, even when he wasn't. She reached and grasped his hand, squeezed, and released. He took a deep breath and nodded a bit, a small smile finding his lips reluctantly.
"I can't believe they died at the same time. You must be feeling so much right now." Janey's words made sense to say, not many people lose both parents in one fell swoop, but Michael reasoned that there must have still been plenty in history who have, and so he should be fine. Right? Seeing her husband lost in thought again, Janey tuned the radio on to a popular station she would ignore and turned to face out the window, preferring the bright sunny sights of the trees lining the route as they sped past to the impending road ahead, which was also turning her stomach a bit. Her husband had rarely ever talked about his past in Ohio, but when he did, it was clear it was difficult for him to get it out.
It was as if something there was so bad that he had to talk around it, like if he only told the good parts of his past, that the bad parts would disappear. She knew that he had two parents back home when they married, but his parents weren't invited to their sparsely attended wedding, and since her parents were passed, Janey didn't make a big deal about it then. After all, a lot of people lose touch with their parents, and more now than ever, it seemed. As she watched the trees pass with their lovely fall colors and scraggly bushes, she thought about what else she knew of Michael's hometown. He'd mentioned it was pretty small, a little place settled in the valley between two metropolises. His childhood sounded idyllic to her, stories of racing his bike to the park and sledding down any hill he could find in the winters were what filled the brief recollections he provided. He mentioned long-time friends and old girlfriends in passing, but never in much detail. And of course, she knew he had siblings.
<<...To be Continued>>
Is there a Maga meter? Cause my parents are somewhere between "buying my grandma toilet paper with Obama's face on it" and "don't date black guys, you'll never fit in with their family"
When I don't know what to do I just ask my mom what to do and then do the opposite
My gender spectrum goes from Mr Bean to Ramona Flowers
I know I'm not supposed to treat the world like a TV show but I think Abed was onto something when he explained that it is comforting because television has to make sense or it gets cancelled. It's comforting because the bad guy doesn't win and the main character always does the right thing by the end of the show. The dialogue is structured and the characters are easy to understand. The world would simply make more sense to me as a TV show
My doctor and therapist: now with this autism + ADHD diagnosis you need to learn to unmask because masking all the time will make you burn out again and feel like shit
Other people: well it's just interesting how after getting the diagnosis you suddenly start behaving like that I mean I'm not saying you're faking it's just funny how you suddenly cannot be normal like you were before
I found that the more I masked, the more I attracted the friendship of selfish, insensitive people. Even my parents have accused me of performative expression because I finally chose to let my guard down around them. I can't stand spending time with them anymore. If someone likes you for your mask, they didn't like you at all. For me, it's been so much better to stop constantly seeking approval from people who don't like me for who I really am. And masking isn't your fault, people, it's a coping mechanism to survive around assholes.
i mean one of us needs to be interesting or what are we even doing here