👊💥

So I'm a wreck, and I think my body knows that, because I haven't had my monthly time for the entire month of July, and I don't think that's right, but even if it were okay, my tummy won't shut up, and my ear hurts so badly that I really think I'll be tempted to punch something soon. Why? Who knows. Maybe I sinned too much in a previous life. I can only hope that it gets better overnight and I feel more like a reasonable human being tomorrow. 

Physical ailments aside, though, I have ample other reason to be grumpy. Interestingly, most of them have to do with my family. At the moment, I'm convince that they all hate me, which is of course irrational, or at least I think it is because I'm usually convinced that everyone hates me, but anxiety is a funny thing, and it can be very persuasive. Like, Dad is the de facto Bad Guy of the family (which, granted, isn't without reason), but if he leaves, there will need to be a new scapegoat, I'm sure, and there's no reason it shouldn't be me. I mean, I'd hate me if I met me. Now, I'm not sure how being the family counselor would work after that- maybe they would continue to use me, but hate me for it? That would be a circumstance quite full of drama and meaningfulness and it sounds like a bad 19th century novel. So that's probably what will happen. Of course, then I can expect to be beautiful and virtuous and completely one-dimensional, and I can be swept off my feet by a handsome and equally one-dimensional author self-insert, and we will move to Paris and cultivate our gardens and everything will be roses and honey from then on out. Which sounds like quite a terrible fate, really, except for the moving to Paris part (although I don't love their political situation at the moment, so who knows about that either). But where was I? Right, my irrational fears of everything under the sun. Do you suppose that I'm being a bit melodramatic, possibly? I do. I'm like the self-referential equivalent of a Phillip Roth poem. Why anyone puts up with me is anyone's guess (though not mine, because I'd be sure to imagine something thoroughly unpleasant that would keep me up all night). You know, maybe I should start doing some of those coping strategies that I learned from the Program. It couldn't hurt (probably).

Another reason for my crankiness (as if I needed one) is that it's terribly hot in here. We don't use the air conditioning much, and even if we did, it probably wouldn't help, because the heat has become so engrained in our lives that the idea of heating us has absorbed into the very structure of the house, kind of like House of Leaves, but more exothermic. So when I say my blood is boiling, for any reason, you can be sure that I mean it quite sincerely. I will probably end up creeping downstairs in the middle of the night to bask in the slightly cooler air and make myself an easy target for all the burglars who no doubt want to rob us of all our emotional baggage. That's what I did last night, and it was nice, only then everyone else woke up, and I was the only one sleeping while they puttered around me, unheeding of my slumber. Also, I had really weird dreams. That's probably not a result of sleeping downstairs, though; I think I would have had them anyway. But still, it did lend a surreal atmosphere to the whole experience.

Here's another thing: Andrew has been texting me again, and it's kind of funny, but it's also hella annoying, because every time he does, I'm reminded of the time he told me not to get my PhD because it would hold me back in my personal life. I mean, I told him to stuff it, and I totally won the argument because his logic is abysmal, and he's still in his Sophomoric Philosophy Class Show-Off phase (and probably will be forever, if his age is any indication), but it still ticked me off, and now it's really hard to take anything he says seriously. Why do boys have to be so stupid? I'm telling ya, when my Sydney Carton finally comes along, he won't do any of this stuff. 

OH. Okay, so this is the last one, but it's arguably the worst, and it's been bugging me for awhile, so I must share it and then it can bug you too. So, you see Dad has started a mental health program, which is good (I think), and at first, his therapist seemed quite thoughtful and competent. But THEN she told Mom that physical touch is important (which, I guess), and we should have seven minutes of cuddling every day. Mom demurred, because a whole big problem is that Dad will continually touch us when we don't want him to, and we feel very uncomfortable and disrespected and all that. But then the therapist said that people, especially girls, should be touched even if they don't like it, because otherwise they will grow up emotionally stunted and have problems in their relationships, so Talia and I should let Dad touch us whenever he wants. And I hit the roof. Because this is exactly what I'm trying to prevent, you see. This sort of attitude goes against everything I believe, not even just as a feminist, but as a decent human being, and the thought of a licensed psychologist spewing this bullshit, especially to someone like my dad, honestly scares me. It reinforces his already problematic views, and that's something he totally doesn't need. We were talking a few days ago, and he told me that even if I feel uncomfortable, that doesn't mean it's wrong, and I should just let it happen, because it's "good for me" and because it satisfies some kind of craving of his. Which is frankly one of the creepiest things I've heard him say. Naturally, I'm always going to do my damnedest to protect my siblings, but who's going to protect me? Well, me. That's who. First chance I can, I'm going to go off on this therapist, because this whole situation is immensely fucked up, and if you think I'm done, you're off by a longshot. I'm going to sleep now, because Talia is here and I don't want the light of my phone to keep her up, but you can rest assured that even in dreamland, I am

still deeply unhappy. Okay, goodnight!