Hey guys,

Long time no talk (or write, or anything). I'm almost done with this session; thank God, it's been a rough one. While I'm anticipating my next session to be stressful, I'm honestly ready for it, lol.

I wrote a blood a while back, detailing my bones to pick with my mom's friend, Linda, and her daughter, Lisa. A little bit of backstory that pertains to this: after my dad died, Lisa told my brother and I that she has intentions of eventually getting a tattoo.

Oohwee, but not just any ink!

Lisa had intentions to get a memorial tattoo -- a feather with a heart, to be exact -- for my dad.

Whom she claims sends her feathers -- my grandma said that, in the Romanian belief, the dead send you white feathers to tell you that they're okay where they are -- from beyond the grave. Whom she claims was like a father figure to her, which he wasn't because:

1) she still has her dad but chooses to treat him like shit.
2) she honestly acted like a bitch to my dad around 95% of the time, was constantly moody, and calling him and everyone else awful names if they didn't agree with whatever she said or praised her for any reason.

She further claims that his death caused her to become "crazy" and to need intensive therapy and to need massive amounts of medication -- which is a huge freakin' bluff because she was in therapy and on medication LONG before my dad died. She told me after he died that she thinks that I need to go on medication and to seek therapy because it's "unhealthy" for me to cry all the time -- this is coming from some spoiled 18-year-old girl who literally never knew any sort of tragedy as I did. She constantly wants someone to feel sorry for her and to constantly have the attention on her. I was telling a friend of mine today that Lisa constantly trying to one-up everyone's issues -- from my dad's death to medical issues, etc. -- reminds me of the eating disorder community that I was a part of during my teens. Everyone was always trying to prove how much more "sick" they are than everyone else.

For example, I once told Lisa that my stomach hurts and if she has anything she can give me. She snapped at me, "I HAVE CELIAC DISEASE MY STOMACH HURTS ALL THE TIME DON'T COMPLAIN." She ALWAYS has to make sure to tell anyone who'll listen how her periods are so heavy, or how her celiac is flaring, or how her diabetes is keeping her up at night, or how abysmally difficult her classes are, etc. It's fucking nauseating. No one can complain because oh my GOD, how dare the attention come off of Lisa for three seconds???

Lisa just got this tattoo today. What's funny is that she intended on getting it somewhere where everyone can't see it. Go fucking figure that she ended up getting it square in the middle of her forearm, where everyone and their mother can see it and ask questions and feel sorry for her. I saw the picture of it today; I, quite frankly, lost my shit.

I can promise you that my dad never sent her any feathers and I can promise that she's absolutely giddy about having something that someone can ask her about and to talk about that has nothing to do with her. I can promise you that Lisa isn't dealing with any fucking aftermath -- court, lawyers, etc -- of what my mom and brothers go through after my dad's death. I can promise you that she barely thinks of the remains of the man in the grave in Las Vegas. I can promise you that she will probably have her dad see her graduate college and walk down to get her diploma, while mine won't be there. Her dad will be there to watch her get married and have kids and have a job, while mine fucking won't. I get to don my scrubs every day and hope/wish/pray that I could see my dad in the kitchen making coffee just ONCE and for him to tell me, "Hey, Nurse Ari." I'd kill to feel him hug me again and I'd kill to have him there when I graduate.

It's not fair.
February 17th, 2019 at 04:19am