Autobiography Page-A-Day #7

Snapshots from my life, one question at a time. Problems I had with my parents growing up:

We’ll begin where I began, with my mother. When I was young, we were constantly at odds over hair-brushing. I would scream and lament at the tiniest tug of the tresses as a child. As an adult, my mother had this horrid knack for asking me repeatedly what I planned to do to remedy situations I had no control over. She was always in my personal space, and seemed to get into it more so when I asked her to stop. I would get in trouble all the time for picking on my brother, and I hated waking up, which ran contrary to her love of waking people up, namely me.

She just didn’t understand me when I was a teenager, and she embarrassed me in front of my friends for sport. I didn’t outright brawl with my mother, she would say, “I’m not mad, just very disappointed, you really let me down.” Honestly this was absolutely the worst possible thing, I would have rather she scream at me.

I really didn’t like it when she made “ahi surprise” for dinner because we knew it was just tuna casserole. She really didn’t (doesn’t) like it when I borrow her clothes and her shoes. According to her I could ruin a pair of heels walking across a carpeted room.

My mother was the yin to my yang.

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My father is as expected a horse of a different color. Shall we go with vermilion? Our biggest fights were about everything. He tried to blend families twice, the first with a bipolar woman who had four children, the second with a woman who had borderline personality disorder and two children from two different men one of which had disowned his son and the other who was in jail. This second woman was particularly heinous, attempting to knock both my brother and I out of my father’s heart, and I’d be lying if this habit of finding the worst women imaginable to add to our lives ever so temporarily weren’t a point of contention between my father and I.

He yelled constantly, and I yelled right back, and our screaming matches would get so heated that he once told me that he could actually feel his heart racing so hard he, “might have a heart attack.” He could be narcissistic, and the truth as he saw it would change to fit his ideal. He said terrible things about our mother in front of us and had to always be in control. He was never wrong and apologies were infrequent. He was my coach for every sport and I had to be the best. It bothered him that I was not popular at school as he had been. He never seemed to be on my side and had superficial values, always pressuring me to maintain physical beauty and social popularity.

My father was a lot like me.

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