Tag: misery

That Sucked

I called my parents today just to say hello. My mother gave me both barrels, right in the face. Boy is she unhappy about moving into an assisted living place. Boy did she let me have it. My favorite was when she said you’re not going to help me get out of here, are you. Yeah, that was the best. Honorable mention goes to the time she said if she had to live there the rest of her life then the rest of her life is going to be really short. No, I am not going to get you out of the place that will take care of you better than anyone you have ever met before can take care of you.

Yeah, that was fun. It was easy to pay attention to work after that. Sure it was.

First Last Time

I’m getting ready to head over to my parents’ house. This is likely the last time I will go there while my parents are actually there. It won’t be the last time I go there because there is an eternity of work to do still. It’s just that after today my parents won’t be there anymore.

I expect a lot of emotion. Sadness, nostalgia, all of that. I expect tears. Probably not from me though. My tiny little brain has associated that house with all of the failures and mistakes I made during the first 36 years of my life. Specifically from the day I dropped out of college in 1990 to the day I moved back after getting out for a year in, I think, 1996, to the point where I was a college graduate working a full time job and still living with my parents in 2008.

It’s going to be hard for me not to jump up and down and celebrate while the rest of my family is sad and teary.

Home for Now

Another chapter in the never ending story comes to a close and I go home again. I was 36 when I moved out of that house (April 2008) and lets say for the last 10-11 years I was miserable pretty much every second I was there. Then after my mother’s cancer I was there to watch her every other Friday for… what was it… eight more years? Now for the last five months it’s been 24 out of every 72 hours, approximately. I honestly can’t put into words how much just being in the house hurts me. That’s not even considering my parents’ health situations, which by themselves are soul crushing. Just being in that house makes me miserable.

I’m going back tomorrow night because why not just destroy my soul while I have the chance, right? I know it’s the right thing to do, and I know I have to do it and I know and I know and I know. Being the right thing doesn’t change the fact that the house itself is my personal hell.

The overnights should be ending soon. Unless the universe is fucking with us, hard… and I am not willing to discount that as a possibility, it should be ending soon.

Not soon enough.

…and I go back tomorrow night.

Don’t Trust Your Bathroom Scale

On Saturday my wife and I went to our first Weight Watchers meeting.  I weighed in at approximately REDACTED* pounds.  This morning (all of four days later) I stepped on the bathroom scale.  I should mention that I am always telling people not to step on the scale.  Once a week.  Once every two weeks.  Fine.  Every couple of days?  You’re going to drive yourself crazy and you won’t want to stay on the wagon.  Still, there I was this morning stepping on the bathroom scale.

Like I said, it was four days after my official Weight Watchers weigh in.  How much did the bathroom scale say I weighed?

REDACTED – 15. 

I lost 15 pounds in four days?  Yeah right!  Never trust that bathroom scale.  It’s a dirty rotten liar and it’s out to get you.  I bet you $20 that the next time I step on the scale it will say I gained 25 pounds.  The bathroom scale wants to make you miserable.  It wants to break your heart.

Don’t let it!

* I did not redact my current weight out of any sort of shyness over the value.  I am really fat and morbidly obese and I don’t think I’ve ever denied that on this page.  However, the number was so incredibly large that the text editor I used to write this post actually crashed because the variable holding the text string overflowed.