Picturesque XXIII
Of all the jobs one could take up in this world we live in, I have discovered that “Mother” is the most difficult a woman could ever ask for. The children require unconditional love, love that may be sometimes in short supply.
I thought such supplies would be closed off to me tonight, but I was wrong. After a night of hell, I, and hopefully my mother, can sleep peacefully.
The problem of Internet access had continued into the next day; this is not surprising, seeing I was the only one up at the time of my mother’s decision.
My brother handed me a note before he exited the house. In it he described his own reaction along with his plan to counter Mother’s decision. Reading it made me burn once more; I understand my lack of priority, but this is a low blow. I literally have no life outside school; I have no car, my friends are all lower classmen, and online just as much as I am. Now I have nothing.
The day was, as usual, mundane and uneventful, another testament as to why I enjoy my time online. Upon returning home I did my chores and homework in angered silence. I could not think of anything that may work to lessen the severity of this punishment; for once, I could not verbally duel with my mother.
As soon as my mother returned home she went to her room and cried. At the moment I have no sympathy for her; she has hurt me, so let whatever has hurt her eat at her as her sudden turn eats at me.
My brother waits some minutes then taps my shoulder; he is “going in;” I wish him luck and halfheartedly continue my homework, my ears trained to the voices of my brother and mother. All too soon it becomes simple to hear my mother and brother speak; my brother has failed. I sigh and continue my work.
I myself attempt to reason with her. I snap, and from that point to when I get to bed I regress to the emotional experience to that of a child, expressing a tantrum the likes I have never witnessed before. I scream, I hit myself, and then lapse into boiling silences. Needless to say, it was not a good night for any of us.
And, as always, my tantrum subsides and the adult I am supposed to be returns. I assess my actions, and I am disgusted. I am disgusted with what prompted the punishment; I am disgusted with the punishment itself; I am disgusted with my reaction. I cannot believe what a child I have become; am I not supposed to be ‘grown-up,’ an adult? What ever happened to the numerous lectures of being like ‘the adult I am supposed to be’ that my mother reiterated to me since I turned sixteen? I have dishonored myself.
And yet, oddly, when I confess my regression to my mother, she understands. My mother, who has mainly told me of the adult I need to be, understood. Well, I do not fully understand, and I do not think I ever will, unless I become a mother myself. I am glad that my mother understands, but I doubt I will recover from this appalling regression anytime soon.
