Storytelling, parents' style

Think of it as an exercise in storytelling. That is what I have been telling myself for the last week, as I listened to my parents narrate my life back to me, working themselves into fevered crescendos, quivering with italics and outrage.

Oh, I know they mean well, I do. They are just like those articles in the newspaper, the ones that swear that they will tell you the one way to avoid disaster and mice in the pantry, because you are the kind of special person who should never suffer, or deal with rodents in the rice. Except for the fact that my parents tend to skip the kind lead in, and thrust straight to the black heart of the matter.

They disapprove. And that is an understatement. They disapprove of my life so thoroughly that as I listened to them, I found myself agreeing—their arguments had such force, and passion, and characterization! If I could write the way my parents harangue, I am sure I would have a bestseller on my hands, or at least a page turner.

The thing is, they DO mean well, and they DID focus unerringly on several aspects of my life which are also causing me great dissatisfaction. The aforementioned weight gain, the disturbing lack of writing motivation, the long stretches of lonely days while TEG works himself into a fervor. TEG himself, and our relationship, or lately lack thereof. These are all things I have noticed myself, things that make me frown and look for solutions. So my parents' lectures were a bit like reading Cliff Notes for books I have already analyzed to death, but being no closer to writing that definitive paper on them. It's beyond frustrating to see problems but no answers everywhere. Where is the lag here? What am I not letting myself acknowledge?

I've spent most of the time since they left arguing with them, mustering up all of the arguments that would finally trump theirs, and prove to them that “see, I'm not such a passive little loser!”

But they can't hear that. No, they really can't, because in all of my 34 years on this earth I have never ONCE managed to outshout my parents when they feel strongly about something.

Their voices are still echoing in my ears, and I am working on separating what I agree with, what I can safely ignore, and what I need to recast in order to remove the sting of hurt and make it palatable. Because I don't agree with everything they said, especially with regards to my ambition (or as they see it, lack thereof). Just because I don't want what they want to me to want, doesn't mean I don't WANT at all.

Anyone who can make sense of that previous sentence gets a cookie. As you can see, the writing is and continues to be a problem. At this point, it's like a bad relationship—I want to do something dramatic for relief, to flounce away, tossing my hair. To get a restraining order against my manuscript.

I can see why people burn their writing. That one moment of freedom, of trumping, must be like an “AHA, IN YOUR FACE, WRITING!” even if you spend the rest of the time berating yourself for being weak.

Which leads me back to my parents and their visit. Other than the ego lambasting I received, this wasn't a bad time. My main goal was to have Madam spend more time with her grandparents and I think that aspect of the trip worked well.

Now I just need to spend a few days licking my wounds until I feel like I'm back in my life again.