Proof that Things Never Change

When I was in high school, probably around when I was fifteen, I was seeing a therapist. Probably the worst therapist I’ve seen to date, but I didn’t know that at the time. I spent our hour long session talking about how I didn’t feel like anyone could see me. About how my parents didn’t see me. I talked about being forgotten because my sister had no problem getting my parent’s attention. They always knew when she was having problems. With me, they’d just let me be. As if I could figure everything out on my own. Sixty minutes spent elaborating how I didn’t feel like I was important. And then the session ended. I walked out of the office, looked around for one of my parents and when I didn’t see them, I sat down. Maybe we’d let out a little early. I waited. And waited. And waited. Pretty soon another hour had gone by. I remember feeling so embarrassed and ashamed. My therapist was now sitting at the reception desk, watching me. We chatted a little between my calls to my mom, all of which went to voicemail. Finally, my mom showed up. She brought me home cursing my dad. When my dad finally got home, he told me he’d forgotten I was in therapy. I don’t remember either of them making it up to me, I don’t even remember if they so much as apologized.

That happened on a Monday. I can almost hear you saying, “Lauren, how could you possibly remember that it was a Monday?” Well, in an attempt to make things easier on my parents and myself, I made sure my appointments were every second Monday. I did that for roughly two, maybe three months before this incident.

I think that’s the day that irony became my absolute favourite literary element.

Today went much the same as that day only I’m nearly six years older. I had a meeting today. I’d known about it since Tuesday. I told my parents, I put a Post It in the front hall (where it still is actually), it was impossible to miss. I even told my parents again the night before. My sister who is barely home knew about it. I was told repeatedly that I would have a ride. This morning, my mom took the car to work, feeling that her independence was slipping away now that my sister has started driving. I woke up at ten o’clock, thankful that I’d at last had a goodnight sleep. Except now I didn’t have a ride and with an hour before the meeting, there was no way I was going to catch a bus. Could I have cabbed it? Yeah, I could have, except I started to think. The last time I took a cab to school for a meeting, the meeting started early, was over by the time I got there and I’d wasted my money. What if this meeting only lasted twenty minutes? And then I thought some more. Why the hell should I pay for a cab because someone else screwed up?!

This was the wrong move. I called my mom at work with the intention of explaining the situation. When she was totally not helpful and not the least apologetic, I dropped a few “f” bombs and spoke much louder than I should have. She hung up on me. Which given the circumstance, is actually understandable.

Finally she got home and I restrained myself. I let her change and get away from the day before going downstairs to talk about it. And I talked. I didn’t yell or swear for that matter. Somehow, I ended up being partially to blame, I received a hollow half-apology and the whole thing was chalked up to a miscommunication.

I would have gladly walked to the bus stop. I don’t care if my mom wants to take the car. It’s her car. She could have told me she was taking it so I could get up on time to get to where I had to be. She deserves her independence, but why did mine have to suffer?

Got to love the bullshit.

PS: the excuse about forgetting is lame and I am so over it.

Angry, frustrated, trapped, Lauren.