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rfmcdonaldYou know, it really is true that you talk more frankly when you're drunk. I did that at the Wave, talking about girls with Andrew, and I did that with Dad.
To be quite clear: I love Dad. Much to my surprise, Dad post-coming out has been a hell of a lot better than Mom. Apparently it's supposed to be the other way around (Dad feels like he's failed to be virile enough to produce a heterosexual son, Mom feels sympathetic towards her dear close child), but whatever. Maybe my Mom's afraid that she'd not going to have grandkids from me; but then, there's my sister, who's straight, and, well, not nearly as family-minded as me shall we say.
Irregardless, he volunteered to pick me up whenever I decided to leave the Wave, and as it happened it was at 1:30. Actually, I only got to the car at 1:45--I was responding to LJs, including my own. He seemed concerned by the amount fo booze I'd drunk, which was fair enough, but after he began asking me what I drank Id ecided to be completely honest with him. About everything.
(I'm trying to type as much as I said to Dad in here, I want to preserve this for posterity. Bear with me if I fail.)
I told Dad that I resented how he and Mom, but particualrly Mom, tried to regulate everything I did, assume that I was incapable of managing anything by myself, or that I couldn't survive mistakes. I didn't tell them about the, shall we say, events surrounding my final arrival in Richmond from Washington D.C. (which, incidentally, Tom, I'm now coming to remember with tolerant appreciation), but I did tell Dad that I managed to jet around the continent on my own coin and my myself without anything happening.
(I mean, people, my parents saw nothing wrong with sending my sister to western Europe with a grown woman who thought that one shortcut to take from one point on a completely straight street (Barcelona's Las Ramblas) to another point on the same street was to go down a narrow dark ally, so why should they think that I'm going to get robbed, raped, and murdered (with the murderers probably coming home to finish off the McDonald household) in the middle of North America. So why should they think that I'm going to die abroad?)
Dad tried to talk, but I kept on talking. I told him that I loved him, and that I loved Mom, but that it was incredibly difficult for me to want to spend time with either of them (especially Mom) because they seemed to suspect my terminal incapacity to cope by myself. I pointed out that (insofar as I can tell, from my peers and my teachers and my coworkers and others who know me) I'm actually quite a competent person. So why, then, would I want to spend time with people who thought me incapable? I particularly pointed out Mom, who not only pointed out my supposed moral incapacity to be autonomous when she said (on the eve of that September GLBT dance) that she felt like her life was over, but that I wasn't mentally competent since my anti-depressants supposedly weren't working (quite silly, since it's only because of them I've been able to assert myself).
I think I got through to Dad. I told him, on two separate occasions, that thought I might be drunk I was definitely being honest with him. When we arrived, he wanted to talk more to me, but I left directly to the bathroom to get undressed and wash myself down for bed.
I hope this represents a breakthrough of sorts. Maybe I should have this talk with Mom.
Thoughts?
To be quite clear: I love Dad. Much to my surprise, Dad post-coming out has been a hell of a lot better than Mom. Apparently it's supposed to be the other way around (Dad feels like he's failed to be virile enough to produce a heterosexual son, Mom feels sympathetic towards her dear close child), but whatever. Maybe my Mom's afraid that she'd not going to have grandkids from me; but then, there's my sister, who's straight, and, well, not nearly as family-minded as me shall we say.
Irregardless, he volunteered to pick me up whenever I decided to leave the Wave, and as it happened it was at 1:30. Actually, I only got to the car at 1:45--I was responding to LJs, including my own. He seemed concerned by the amount fo booze I'd drunk, which was fair enough, but after he began asking me what I drank Id ecided to be completely honest with him. About everything.
(I'm trying to type as much as I said to Dad in here, I want to preserve this for posterity. Bear with me if I fail.)
I told Dad that I resented how he and Mom, but particualrly Mom, tried to regulate everything I did, assume that I was incapable of managing anything by myself, or that I couldn't survive mistakes. I didn't tell them about the, shall we say, events surrounding my final arrival in Richmond from Washington D.C. (which, incidentally, Tom, I'm now coming to remember with tolerant appreciation), but I did tell Dad that I managed to jet around the continent on my own coin and my myself without anything happening.
(I mean, people, my parents saw nothing wrong with sending my sister to western Europe with a grown woman who thought that one shortcut to take from one point on a completely straight street (Barcelona's Las Ramblas) to another point on the same street was to go down a narrow dark ally, so why should they think that I'm going to get robbed, raped, and murdered (with the murderers probably coming home to finish off the McDonald household) in the middle of North America. So why should they think that I'm going to die abroad?)
Dad tried to talk, but I kept on talking. I told him that I loved him, and that I loved Mom, but that it was incredibly difficult for me to want to spend time with either of them (especially Mom) because they seemed to suspect my terminal incapacity to cope by myself. I pointed out that (insofar as I can tell, from my peers and my teachers and my coworkers and others who know me) I'm actually quite a competent person. So why, then, would I want to spend time with people who thought me incapable? I particularly pointed out Mom, who not only pointed out my supposed moral incapacity to be autonomous when she said (on the eve of that September GLBT dance) that she felt like her life was over, but that I wasn't mentally competent since my anti-depressants supposedly weren't working (quite silly, since it's only because of them I've been able to assert myself).
I think I got through to Dad. I told him, on two separate occasions, that thought I might be drunk I was definitely being honest with him. When we arrived, he wanted to talk more to me, but I left directly to the bathroom to get undressed and wash myself down for bed.
I hope this represents a breakthrough of sorts. Maybe I should have this talk with Mom.
Thoughts?
