December 15, 2002
11:12 a.m.

I guess I owe a bit of an explanation about last entry. It's just a matter of figuring out where to start. I used to love my life here at home. Mom and I got along great, and, even with the money problems we've had, we always managed to have fun. We helped each other out. Yeah, we had our problems, our arguments, but it was never really a big deal, we moved on, life returned to normal. Then came Roger. A man who leaves his dying wife a note as a way of explanation for picking up all of his belongings and moving up here. That made me nervous from the start. What kind of man does that? I admittedly don't know the whole story, so I was willing to put that all behind me, and give him a chance.

Mom told me he would be living with his brother, so I would be able to get to know him before he moved in. Then, on the day that Play-On died, on a day when my emotions were already off the chart, I come home to find a guy I have never even met has already moved into the house. I was hurt by that. I had told my Mom how uncomfortable I was with this guy, how I wanted to get to know him first, and, she had promised me that he would not set foot in the house until I was comfortable, but there he was. When I reminded her of the previous promise, she told me he was already moved in, and that I just needed to get over it. Well, that was all fine and good, I was hurt and angry, but I could get over it.

Then, they decide they are getting married as soon as his divorce is final. Okay, whatever, the guy I don't really like at all will become my step-father. Then comes the announcement that we are once again way behind on the mortgage payment, but Mom has just bought a wedding dress, and a wedding ring. We may have no roof over our head, but she has a wedding dress. I am still paying most of the bills, and she can go buy stuff like that.

They go out to eat all the time, and, if I am really lucky, I may get left overs from whatever really expensive restaraunt they have just come back from. They can do that at least once a week, but my Mom has to max out -MY- credit card to make a payment on some bill. Sometimes, it would be nice to be able to keep some of the money that I work my ass off for and buy something for me.

Then, the past two weeks, it's like she has almost become spitefull, vindictive. I go to work one morning, and, not long after I get there, Mom calls me up, and tells me that one of the dogs peed in her crate, and the she is not cleaning it up, because it is my dog, and that it will just have to wait until I get home. So, my dog sat in her own urine for eight hours while I was at work because my Mom, who was home all day mind you, couldn't be bothered to clean it up. Then, she makes a trip to the grocery store, buys food for her cats and stuff, and tells me, while I am on my way home from work at ten thirty at night, that if I want the kittens to eat, I have to stop and buy food for them. She will wait until eleven thirty, when I leave for work around twelve, to ask to borrow my truck for something really important. When I tell her that there just isn't time, she tells me to call into work and tell them I will be late. I mean, if this were a once in a while thing, it would be okay, but she does this all the time. Just because I am in good with my boss, and he would let me come in two hours late if I asked, doesn't mean she has the right to ask me to do it once a week, for no reason.

Then, there are times, like this morning, where Mom and Roger will sit and talk about MY life, while I am right in front of them.

The past few weeks, I have found reasons to stay later at work. I will start the autoclave, knowing it takes fourty-five minutes, and can't be left on with no one there. I will go out on calls with the doctors, even when I know they don't really need any help. Unlike most of the people in the world, I don't look foward to closing time. Poor Dr. C has been my venting board lately. The other day, while I was in surgery, my Mom called to pull one of her 'your dogs messed up their crate, and I am not cleaning it up' things. After I hung up the phone, I just kind of slid down the wall, and asked Dr. C if she minded if I burst into uncontrollable tears. Dr. C wasn't really sure how to respond to that.

Like I said a few entries before, I just don't love my home anymore. I hate comming home. I spend more time here crying, and depressed, than I do being happy. I've tried talking to my Mom about it, but, for the first time in my life, she doesn't listen. I just can't continue to live my life like this. Something has got to give, and I just hope it isn't me.

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