(no subject)

So my mother just called me.

She's in Florida, with my father (so I'm alone in the house, having to again beg rides to and from work), celebrating my grandmother's ninetieth birthday. (I, of course, was not invited; they don't take me anywhere anymore, and there's no way I could go myself.) And, being my mother, she called to do exactly one thing: bitch me out. Apparently my grandmother feels disconnected from me, feels like I don't care, to the point where she's considering cutting me out of her will. And, being my mother, she ordered me to write her tonight. (Which I will probably do tomorrow, due to remix, but no way was I going to try to explain that to her.)

But this isn't even a mother rant, not really.

I like my grandmother, though I haven't seen her in quite some time as she lives permanently in Florida now (used to do the snow goose thing). She's very nice, with an artistic streak under all her old-fashioned ladyhood. I remember once when I was about thirteen or so, during one of the visits to her place in Massachusetts, her asking me, quite delicately, if she could ask me a "personal question." Of course, being thirteen and slightly paranoid, I assume she's going to ask me if I'd gotten my period, which I recently had, so it was on my mind. But no, she asked if I cooked.

At the time I didn't. Now I do.

But what the fuck am I supposed to write her now? I cook, yes. I don't do much else. What am I supposed to say? Dear Grandmother, I haven't written because I've been feeling isolated and helpless and suicidally depressed, and my girlfriend best friend of two years suddenly abandoned me, and I'm doing absolutely nothing with my life except going slowly insane. I have trouble connecting to people at all, because I'm all shy and paranoid, but even more so over distances, even more so by letter. And I hate burdening people with this, especially my family, especially people outside of my little circle of internet friends who are at least used to it. I used to write you long letters about all my accomplishments, all the fun things I do, but I don't have any anymore, not since I graduated. I mop the floor in a cafe, and I go home and hide in my pigstye of a room and try not to cry. That's all. I can't even write anymore. And I didn't want you to know. I'm so ashamed, and I didn't want you to know.

I knit. Sometimes. That's the best part. Knitting. And sometimes I cook. But I am so sad, and so afraid, and so broken, and I don't want you to know anything about me until I'm better, until I have a life worth boasting about again. Because now I'm just living off of handouts, stupid and useless, and I know I was supposed to be better, and I'm so sorry. I'm so very sorry.

But, god, I don't think she wants to hear that. So what do I do? Lie?

And this on top of the remix, which is due in two hours, and now I don't even want to go near it, I just want to curl up and cry and maybe try to write something coherent to my grandmother.