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For once, I struggle to have something to write. Well, no, I’m lying, its just that I don’t really know how to begin, and this sounds like as good a way as any. I just had an argument with Mum and Ken. Of course, because you can’t argue with one and not the other. They’re like a little arguing gang. Two on one. Always.
Ken was excessively vague tonight. Just before dinner, he made some garbled, non worded comment about the face that I was touching my hair, and when I asked him what he said, what he meant, what he was trying to get at, he couldn’t tell me. This is just one of the many, many things that annoy me about him, his inability to even out a string of words together to say what he’s thinking. It is the most frustrating thing in the entire world.
I asked him about it, and effectively he said ‘Whenever I try to say what I mean I’m always wrong and get in trouble so I’m just not going to bother.” And asked him whether he would rather just sound like a total fool, and he said yes. So, attempting perhaps to raise his temper enough that he would just spit it the fuck out, I suggested he perhaps didn’t have the balls.
Cue my mother with the verbal tongue lashing about how I shouldn’t speak to hi like that; that it shows a lack of respect, and the age old one, would I speak to my father like that?
Do they really want answers to these questions? I know they don’t, because if I were to tell them the truth they would never, ever forgive me. It would ruin our relationship forever. Mums and mine I mean. I really don’t give a fuck about my relationship with Ken. I really don’t have a relationship with Ken.
But honest truth, the brutally honest truth that I can never, ever voice to them?
No. I wouldn’t say that to my father. Yes, it’s because I respect my father more. It’s also because my father deserves more respect, in my eyes. Yes, Ken does ‘everything’ for me, as Mum puts it, in terms of picking me up taking me places, anything material tat I might ask him, but when I comes to anything at all that actually matters, like perhaps listening to me and communicating with me and being there emotionally, those fields are as blank as the look that often graces his face. So no, I wouldn’t say that to my father. Yes, I respect my father more than I respect Ken. I would never NEED to try and force my father into voicing his opinion; he is as damn opinionated about everything as I am. So is Ken, often, but he is only ever opinionated to disagree with you, have no point to h argument whatsoever, except that he wants to have one.
I like my father more. I like him as a person. There are things I don’t like about him, there are things I dam near hate about him, but I like lots of things about him. He makes me laugh, he gives fantastic hugs, his face gets all spiky at night, he sometimes slips bailey into my coffee, he looks at me with those fatherly eyes, he shares my entire history. I can’t really think of anything there is that I like about Ken. He cooks good steak. That’s probably it. He makes my mother happy more often than he makes her mad. He treats her well. That’s just about it.
But when a man gets to fifty five rears old and he still can’t express what it is he’s thinking, I have serious trouble respecting that. I have trouble respecting Ken. And there really isn’t anything that will ever change that. The fact remains that my mother married someone who is everything my father isn’t, and doesn’t that have to be some part of it? Just because she loves him, it doesn’t mean I have to like him. Just because we have to live together, doesn’t mean he is my friend. My life would be better without him, but Mum’s wouldn’t. The truth is, I’ll only be here in this house a few more years, they’ll have the rest of their lives together. That’s what counts. It’s not martyrdom, or an attempt to make myself sound good, it’s a simple fact. Those are the reasons that I can never really say to them what I just wrote here, because it would be he undoing of everything. It would make it impossible for us all to live together, and I know what choice my mother would make. She’d choose her kids, as any mother would, and I would never want to make her do that. It would make her miserable, in the long run, and I could never live with myself if I made her do that.
And so we tolerate each other, Ken and I, and it just goes on, around in circles, and doesn’t end. It’s good to have somewhere where I can vent it and voice it, and know that it will be heard by someone, even if not them.
Ken was excessively vague tonight. Just before dinner, he made some garbled, non worded comment about the face that I was touching my hair, and when I asked him what he said, what he meant, what he was trying to get at, he couldn’t tell me. This is just one of the many, many things that annoy me about him, his inability to even out a string of words together to say what he’s thinking. It is the most frustrating thing in the entire world.
I asked him about it, and effectively he said ‘Whenever I try to say what I mean I’m always wrong and get in trouble so I’m just not going to bother.” And asked him whether he would rather just sound like a total fool, and he said yes. So, attempting perhaps to raise his temper enough that he would just spit it the fuck out, I suggested he perhaps didn’t have the balls.
Cue my mother with the verbal tongue lashing about how I shouldn’t speak to hi like that; that it shows a lack of respect, and the age old one, would I speak to my father like that?
Do they really want answers to these questions? I know they don’t, because if I were to tell them the truth they would never, ever forgive me. It would ruin our relationship forever. Mums and mine I mean. I really don’t give a fuck about my relationship with Ken. I really don’t have a relationship with Ken.
But honest truth, the brutally honest truth that I can never, ever voice to them?
No. I wouldn’t say that to my father. Yes, it’s because I respect my father more. It’s also because my father deserves more respect, in my eyes. Yes, Ken does ‘everything’ for me, as Mum puts it, in terms of picking me up taking me places, anything material tat I might ask him, but when I comes to anything at all that actually matters, like perhaps listening to me and communicating with me and being there emotionally, those fields are as blank as the look that often graces his face. So no, I wouldn’t say that to my father. Yes, I respect my father more than I respect Ken. I would never NEED to try and force my father into voicing his opinion; he is as damn opinionated about everything as I am. So is Ken, often, but he is only ever opinionated to disagree with you, have no point to h argument whatsoever, except that he wants to have one.
I like my father more. I like him as a person. There are things I don’t like about him, there are things I dam near hate about him, but I like lots of things about him. He makes me laugh, he gives fantastic hugs, his face gets all spiky at night, he sometimes slips bailey into my coffee, he looks at me with those fatherly eyes, he shares my entire history. I can’t really think of anything there is that I like about Ken. He cooks good steak. That’s probably it. He makes my mother happy more often than he makes her mad. He treats her well. That’s just about it.
But when a man gets to fifty five rears old and he still can’t express what it is he’s thinking, I have serious trouble respecting that. I have trouble respecting Ken. And there really isn’t anything that will ever change that. The fact remains that my mother married someone who is everything my father isn’t, and doesn’t that have to be some part of it? Just because she loves him, it doesn’t mean I have to like him. Just because we have to live together, doesn’t mean he is my friend. My life would be better without him, but Mum’s wouldn’t. The truth is, I’ll only be here in this house a few more years, they’ll have the rest of their lives together. That’s what counts. It’s not martyrdom, or an attempt to make myself sound good, it’s a simple fact. Those are the reasons that I can never really say to them what I just wrote here, because it would be he undoing of everything. It would make it impossible for us all to live together, and I know what choice my mother would make. She’d choose her kids, as any mother would, and I would never want to make her do that. It would make her miserable, in the long run, and I could never live with myself if I made her do that.
And so we tolerate each other, Ken and I, and it just goes on, around in circles, and doesn’t end. It’s good to have somewhere where I can vent it and voice it, and know that it will be heard by someone, even if not them.
