The Thirty-Seventh Post
Everyone’s out of town. Birnbaum, in Eastern Europe for 12 weeks. Maestro, in China for 8. I got tired of kicking the rewrite around without a real sense of direction, and getting the sense that I was the only one interested in continuing to write, I decided to start another screenplay, with a really dear friend who’ll be my writing partner. It’s something I’m getting more comfortable doing – putting my brain together with someone else’s and see what bastard children we create that I ordinarily wouldn’t on my own. These attempts are all commercial in nature and have nothing to do with the kind of writing I’ve aspired to as a W/writer, but really so they can pay for it.
I’ve a lot to say about my relationship with my mother, and it’s nothing I probably haven’t said already on this blog, so instead of a rant, I’ll sum it all up by saying she makes it easier and easier to disconnect myself from her. I’m tired of parenting her, being her surrogate husband, and I really fucking hate it when she acts like she’s my child. My narcissistic, disingenuously stupid, self-made victim child. Who calls all of this “love and concern”. My father and mother have made me hate hearing the words “I love you”. That’s when I freak. That’s when I cringe. That’s when I feel dirty, in real need of a thorough cleaning. That’s when I want to run. Though I try to put up with, and receive it, because it might be good for me. Or something like that. I don’t know, I’ve got a headache.
The bills are piling up and it’s getting hard to pay them all. Another reason for my commercial aspirations. Oof. I used to put up with being broke a lot better in my 20s. When you’re 34, the feeling of loserishness can creep in. I shake it off by going to the gym. Though my trainer’s gone AWOL. Exhausting myself. Steam emanating.
But, all is not amiss. Silas, the kid I tutored, won the fucking laptop in the writing contest sponsored by the shelter. I handed it to him in the library near the apartment his mom just moved them into and he was the envy of every kid there. And it’s been a few months since I’ve seen him but his mother rang last week to tell me that in the time since, he’d written a novel that was now being published in hardcover, nationwide. I was agog, filled with pride, terribly moved for them. This’ll help pay for school, college, clothes. And by the time he’s an adult he’ll have had a lifetime of writing and publishing experience. It’s insane. Insanely good. I wish I didn’t have a headache – this shouldn’t sound so subdued.
If I don’t make it and this kid does, honestly, it’d be alright.
congrats to Silas. completely amazing.
my best friend has the same type of mother that you do. it’s exhausting. and it pisses me off. i often wonder how old we’ll be before she finally puts her foot down. really, it’s all very sad.
I don’t know, Mrs. M.; in my humble experience, most adult children of parents like these will continue the way they are and unwittingly try their best to make accommodations and excuses for continuance of these relationships. It takes a big incident, or a trauma, or something life changing like what I’ve been experiencing before we *learn* to object to that treatment. It usually happens when we realize it’s tantamount to literal abuse and have a “we’re not going to take it” moment. I hope your friend reaches that place as soon as possible.
Most people don’t come out of their own bubble long enough to help someone else. Silas is lucky to have you.
Thank you, JaG. I don’t think most people realize that it isn’t such hard work to help. And I never thought for a second I would personally ever have a palpable, positive influence on a child, or anyone, and so in that sense, I’m lucky to have had Silas, too.