Stealth Blogging & Family Venting
I am at my parents' apt. and every time I get on the computer and start looking at blogs or even thinking about blogging one of them pops up behind me. It's crazy.
I feel like I'm trying to look at pictures of nekkid ladies when really all I want to do is check in with my bloggy friends without letting my family in on my on-line existence. Not that I have anything big to hide, I just like having some illusion of privacy as I spill my guts to the internet. Yes, I see the irony. But then I got even more freaked out when I went to comment on a blog and discovered that my mother has a blogger login. I almost left a comment as my mom. Eek.
(yes, I am a 31 year old woman, not a squealing teenager, despite the tone of the above)
I am hoping to get some new Guatebaby pictures any day now... hopefully they will not add to my frustration that Nothing. Is. Happening. on our case. Our agency has not yet been able to make it through the line at the U.S. Embassy to get authorization for the DNA test. Apparently, the line is supposed to start at 6am, but since they only take 40 people a day, it actually starts the night before. But if the embassy staff sees that the agency reps have been in line overnight, they won't let them file the paperwork. Yes, these are our tax dollars at work, my friends.
My parents are so excited about GB, which is fantastic, but also puts more pressure on me to have answers or timelines that I just don't have. My mother says things like, well I hope he's home before he's six months old. As if he will turn into a pumpkin if that's not the case, which it likely won't be. She apologized, repeatedly, but her words bring up this old and barely banked anger that deserves a post of its own and that I can't quite seem to put down again.
It's anger from when I was a child. Anger that I had diabetes. Anger that I always had to be okay and couldn't be angry. Anger that I supressed unconsciously, feeling the weight of her need for me to be okay. Feeling like my own emotions had to be smothered in order to protect her fragile equilibrium. Anger at being told - when I said that it scared me when she got depressed, that it reminded me of the very scary times when she was depressed before - that she was fine now and I had no right to be afraid based on those times. Anger, that until a few years and a few million therapy sessions ago, I would have told you I didn't feel.
And then she says something like this, asks for something I know I am powerless to do, and I feel all that unfelt rage surface like a deep sea diver, gasping for air.
I will post this and then delete the browser history posthaste.
But I need to post this.
p.s. Thank you so so so much for all the kind wishes on finishing! I haven't heard anything from them saying that they are going to reject it for being three days late... so perhaps all is well?