I quit the marketing assistant job three days in. The person who hired me lied about the location, which turned out to be in another city almost an hour away and in a renovated shed in someone’s backyard. No benefits. Low pay. Too much gas to get there.
In hindsight, I shouldn’t have quit. It was a sucky job, but the months of applications and interviews that go nowhere have sucked more. I just had to settle for a retail job because I have to leave my house. I can’t be here anymore. My parents want me out and I want out as well. I try my best to keep my nose down and not butt heads with anyone, but eight years of bottling and letting go is getting to me. Fights and unhappiness have been more frequent, and while my appreciation never wanes, my impatience grows.
Jon thinks I should put my foot down more. Sometimes I think I should too, but when it’s my parents’ house sheltering me and my parents’ money feeding me, it feels wrong to complain. Some of the venom comes from my brother too. He’s living here as a 31-year-old who can’t get on his feet. Every hole he’s in, he’s dug himself. It’s getting hard to feel sympathy when all he does is steal from me and my parents for weed, cigarettes, and his girlfriend who continually breaks his heart.
My problem is that I have full and fervent thoughts, but I don’t say them. I have kept quiet my whole life. I don’t speak my mind. I think it. I write it. I can’t speak it. Most of my problems would be solved if I could simply talk about them to the parties involved. As I get older, it gets easier to swallow my words. As a younger person, I felt an internal violence from my inability to share thoughts. I guess somewhere down the line, I realized how much simpler it is to just breathe out and forget it. This method is fine for a while, but it never solves any problems. And that’s why I’m stuck here. I let myself be bullied into attending a local college, I let myself be talked into living at home, I don’t stand up to my parents when I am emotionally mistreated, I don’t tell my brother I know he stole my things. And father back, it’s why I stayed in a dysfunctional relationship for two years, it’s why I couldn’t break away from bad friends until I was 18, it’s why I never told crucial people how much they meant to me.
I guess the bright side is that I know my flaw (not to say it’s my only one– far from it), and that I’m trying to reverse the damage I’ve done to myself. Sometimes I feel so bad about the friendships I scrapped because I didn’t know there was another way. I could have avoided all this resentment by merely being up front with my problems. It’s faded a lot with time, but I used to feel so angry and mistreated by my friends. Instead of telling them my thoughts, I’d write them in stupid blogs and consider the problem fixed. When I did/do this, I know I blow things out of proportion, stretching them beyond truth without realizing. When I don’t give myself a chance to speak, I write with too much fire. Maybe in some small way, if I had been brave enough to say something, my old friends wouldn’t be the same people with the same flaws. I guess we’re all stuck in our skins until someone can tell a truth so indisputable that we look at ourselves in a new, not so favorable way. When this comes up with Jon, it feels extremely uncomfortable, but I know it’s true. I bite my tongue to the point of bleeding. I get walked on and taken advantage of more than I care to admit. I rarely stand up for myself because I rarely share an opinion to defend in the first place.
It’s not something easily fixed because it’s always been a defined point of my personality. But I want things to change for myself and to move forward in life. It’s become exceedingly clear to me that my passive way of resolving interpersonal issues doesn’t move me anywhere. I’m stuck, and I need to trudge through the stagnation I’ve created. I need to talk.
Is it stupid that I’ve been listening to this on repeat as I write?