Parents are Fantastic

This was meant to be published on the 15th of April, 2016 but never was, until now. Ah well.

If only you had muscles in your fingers, this would have been a significant workout seeing as it was all written on my Kindle Fire (by the way get one if you’re considering a tablet).

Parents are fantastic for making disproportionate and far fetched allegations. It’s a wonder how conditioned they are to believe a series of letters and numbers on a page that are acting only as a prediction, not even a report, of grades for exams. It makes me feel tremendous that they treat my sisters for merely existing. I bust my back at school (when I want to, which is a lot of the time apart from gossipy Lit lessons – kill me now) and I’m not given an ounce of recognition whatsoever. That’s not the point, however I just feel like I am punished for the way my sisters act when I am the absolute opposite to them. It is beyond a joke and it’s so tragic it’s funny. They bring up my old results from two years ago. That’s in the past it’s been dealt with. They told me I wouldn’t get into sixth form. I did without question. I passed all my exams and attained As in three subjects.

They say it’s not a lot and laugh at me saying that it’s a lot better than some. I know many people who failed at least one exam. Let alone got a series of As. I was the only of my three cousins (relatively aged that is) to get an A at all however it’s fine that my cousin drops A levels to take up a vocational course in game design. I’m made to feel like I’m shit for not “doing something with my life” like that however if it was I who decided to give the game up and go to college I would be absolutely hounded for it. There is an injustice and I speak out about it despite being condemned when I do. I get told I overreact, no I’m questioning the thought process behind these assumptions, they aren’t presumptions for they are based on hysteria, perhaps from TV, perhaps from not having and friends especially friends with kids them self. They sit at home and think up these ridiculous ideas about what I am and how I act, my attitude towards life and such but with no justifications and they contest any argument. Like an agitating jester online knowing his victim cannot react but squirm in anger on the other end. I am not perfect and I know this. I am not saintly and unfortunately I am not an Aspergers patient with an IQ of 170 (by the way you have as much credit for your IQ as you do your height). However, I know just how intelligent I am and how my of a spark, flare I have for what I am good at, what I excel in and even things I take interest in but not as good at. Without bragging, I have always had an unsatiated curiosity in me, one I can’t quench for long at least. My sisters, well, they’re basically being taught to not think for themselves.

My parents must have astronomical expectations about myself and often hint towards this in what they say and how they say it. Sometimes I don’t feel as if they realise how much they’re pressuring me. Most parents are extremely laid back or, sorry, just trust their children about their education. My parents know how interested I am and how devoted I can be to what I love yet they like to think I so the bare minimum. Yes I mess about at school sometimes, naturally as everyone does from time to time, I have fun but I pay so much more attention to my subjects than just what the curriculum expects. That’s not just recent. I’ve been doing slightly more advanced things than you’d expect on a computer since I was five years of age- thanks to my Dad! He’s the one fearing I won’t be passing my IT exams. I always was advanced in my English, they put me in a group for kids whom required extra help in English – ELS (English Learning Support) – at my primary school because I think they mistook my different approaches for being behind the standard or whatever. A couple of weeks later, they realised putting me in there was capping my potential gravely. I was always in the free reading group in each year after, being able to choose whatever advanced book I liked from the shelves of the library.

At secondary, as a lot of people do, I lost my focus in my first year – year 7 – many regard it as a settle in year, which for me it was. I’m sensitive and fitting in at that place was extremely difficult, I knew nobody except one person whom… Well her parent was a teacher so I will let you fill in the gaps as to how alienated she was and beyond repair too. That year saw a lot of ridicule and jibing towards myself however this isn’t about bullying and what happened seven years ago only really serves to me now as advice for my younger peers. I soon found my feet again and though my ever becoming. diverse music taste (it all started on rap when I was six) I became heavily into Tupac, but not just the beats and gangster appeal, no I was far more intrigued by his messages and struggles in a disadvantaged background, drugs, guns and crime surrounding him and tests of character through faith. I read more about my new idol, placing him beside how great I thought Eminem was at the time. I read about his interest in numerology and how he read The Prince whilst he served a prison sentence and how he supposedly copied the books author, Niccoló Machiavelli, in faking his own death to fool his enemies (this is where the seven day theory stems from). As a thirteen year old, in year 9, I cashed in a thousand yen note I used for a project in year four on Japan and used the eight pounds I got back to buy the book. I read it in no time and although I struggled to understand some on a first attempt, I read it until I finished it. I was just dubbed a poser by my dad, when it appears that that’s the very petty and vindictive kind of action he would pursue in. I was just interested, seems as if it’s a trait I received from my pap. I never gave a shit what people thought about me, I still don’t, and I see now why I am so drawn to my idols. I’d like to think to a degree I think like them all at least to a certain extent. Why would I pretend to like it and be engaged in it? To look smart? When all it did was gather me labels from prejudice arseholes? This is just one of the many examples of the way I’m viewed by my parents. If I break my back it isn’t good enough.

They pressure me, whipping me with words and astronomical expectations and wonder why I’m sometimes on the floor panting. They don’t appreciate my efforts. It’s not even just that. It’s the fact my sisters are demanding, often manipulative and toxic in their behaviours yet are treated like princesses and I am left as the one to answer to everything. It’s often the principle that upsets me not that “they got a treat and I didn’t” like some insolent prepubescent brat. I had work I submitted for a competition in year seven published in a Mini Sagas book by the Young Writers’ Association.

My father called it a vanity press, pissed on my parade entirely. I took my English exam early and attained an A. He grunted and jokingly asked me why it wasn’t an A* and just mentioned that I should keep it up. He tells me that I should only be doing it for myself and I know that, I don’t want to be a special snowflake but he twists my words to make me look like just that when I complain about my sisters being spoilt rotten and virtually having everything done for them without any merit whatsoever to justify it. Whomever says we live in a meritocracy is a fuckwit, we don’t at all. They demand and manipulate and twist and nag and beg. I ask and get ignored. Their needs are sated because my parents are pressured to give in so they don’t have to face hell every time my sisters are told no. My sisters are of the red behaviour card half an hour detention class clown persuasion who don’t know how to be rebels in the true sense: I was always dubbed a rebel by family members but I always had a cause. I would often speak out on social injustices big or small when I saw them. It seems to me that my sisters have no discipline and can’t take authority in any essence but think it’s just funny to talk back and fart and burp and make spasticated noises like chimps showing off at a zoo.

My parents don’t pressure them to work hard. They don’t underestimate their achievements. They don’t tell them off. They do not expect them to go to university and are completely relaxed about what my sisters suggest they want to do. Then they tell me I’m not good enough, or indirectly imply it at least. However they go on about to me how it’s competitive out there, how my results aren’t good enough in the real world (of work). How would my father know that? He’s been in the same job since he left university, 25 or so years ago,as a sales manager.

Talk to me a out competitive climate. My parents put a lot of money into my sisters’ horse riding and football game visits. Does she deserve it? Debatable. I ask for simple favours and get pushed to the side. I fear my words are hostile but only because of the tipping point I am at. My parents often tell me to “show them” – them being the collective of prejudices people that may be as of yet unknown to me. I think, however, I just need to show them as ironically at this point in my life they are two of the most prejudice people I know, it’s just harder to tell than it is with other people as you’d like to trust your !I’m and dad, sometimes the wolves have too much of a decent disguise for you to notice them, but something stinks,the wolf can’t hide its smell. For me it’s a cycle, as my girlfriend puts it “ticking boxes”. It’s as if one afternoon my dad decides that, having spent the day watching American Pickers on the lunatics lantern, that he comes to a conclusion that he hasn’t given me a good telling off in a long time. With that in mind he will soon find something even menial to bother me with, to fill in his metaphorical parenting ticksheet. My mother does it too. He will call me passive aggressive in arguments because I like to be calm. I just hate people raising their voice at me in any circumstance .

I am simply INFP (I get extreme Fi and Te when reasoning), I hate conflict and I often font care who is right or wrong as long as it stops. Unless I am presenting a case or see justice is being completely denied. My dad squares up to me and I stay still with the same polite intonation asking him to stop, sometimes telling. He calls it passive aggressive. I’m just passive. He’s just aggressive. Yet like so many people I regret to say he picks on my for his own flaws. This whole ongoing series of events ever supports Larkin’s “This Be the Verse” for those of you that don’t know it it goes…..

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
  They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
  And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
  By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
  And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
  It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
  And don't have any kids yourself.

I know this is something most of us face, at least to some extent or another. I can’t always be wrong and I used to feel guilty about arguing but I simply can’t let my feelings be twisted and broken to suit what they think. I feel like I am emotionally tormented often unknowingly but knowingly too and after reading Catch 22 by Joseph Heller I believe I’m living in some mundane version of a Catch 22 myself. I can’t complain. My Alicja is my saviour who faces a great deal of this too, she saves me. I love her. I can always escape to Alicja. Through the good and bad we are always at one another’s sides. She never fails me and by God I wouldn’t forgive myself for failing her.

I’ve escaped crazy HQ for the weekend, far out of the town, to stay with Alicja. I’m going to have a drink and a smoke, enjoy your weekend and remember just because they bring you up and raise you, don’t feel as if your parents are always righteous or superior or omnipotent. If you do feel that way, bear it in mind.

By the way, that weekend was absolutely lovely.


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