Jesus. Really, what’s a Chinese Torture chamber compared to Christmas with the very same people who make you miserable. After a 3 year hiatus from family Christmas, this year I decided to completely ignore my bestest judgement and go to Joburg to stay with my miserable father and his functional alcoholic life partner. It was hideous. So hideous, in fact, that I went to the airport 6 hours early hoping to catch a flight that didn’t involve me spending an entire day with Miserable Father of the Year. That guy has more issues than National Geographic magazine.
My family history has made me what I am today, a psychologically challenged mad woman obsessed with making them see the light. They won’t. Ever. A narcissistic father, schizophrenic mother (coincidentally only after splitting from my turned-out-to-be Gay father) and pathological liar sisters. I mean it’s a bloody circus and they always attempt to make me the ringmaster. Well sorry for them, I have good meds and an even better psychiatrist. I see you, fucked up family. No wonder my life long severe depression ended in a Bipolar mood disorder diagnosis. I mean these people are delusional, and only give me more power by attacking me at every corner, stop sign and traffic light. I even got attacked in transit on the N1 highway. How is it that a conversation about the difference between the N1, M3 and R27 sparks harsh swearwords directed at me (when I said that Motorways don’t necessarily have 3 lanes). Well I’m so fucken sorry I am always right. Is that any reason to tell me to fuck off in front of my 8 year old daughter, Grandpa?
Needless to say I’d rather cry myself to sleep on Christmas Eve out of loneliness than ever spend a Christmas with a bunch of sociopaths who literally make me crazy. Fuck that. My mental health is so much more important than a Swarovski crystal leather bracelet. Which yes, I left behind to make a point – I don’t need things, I need emotional support, and you can’t buy me pretty things in the vein hope I will forget about the massive trigger you are to my mood disorder. Well the pretty things would go a long way if you actually acknowledged the effect your gross cruelness has on my recovery.
Off with their heads, family or not!