I visited my parents recently.
I’m so glad I moved out and two hundred miles away.
Let me explain…
When I visit I get the feeling I’m in the home of very unhappy people. Like the kind of unhappiness that causes you to grind your teeth. If I weren’t on Prozac my shoulders would rise over my ears within minutes of crossing their threshold.
All my mom does is worry. She’s been depressed most of her life (why is another post) and she worries about her kids, her grand kids and her great-grand kids. My nephew visited the other day and she wept with worry. I told her before I left “I wish you’d seek therapy.” The only way she’ll listen is if we stage an intervention.
Dad is eighty-one, retired and bored out of his mind. He goes to Wal-Mart at least four times a day. I wish he’d get a hobby. Maybe that is his hobby.
My eldest brother lives with them. He likes to joke and tease, but in his more serious moments he’s a religious nut. Think I’m kidding? He gave away a red shirt; as if the color was an advertisement for The Chicken Ranch. I tried to confide in him once about my emotional breakdown, how I wanted to die. He gave me a speech about a personal relationship with Jesus.
What this post boils down to is I’m glad I don’t live there anymore. On my own I’m free to think for myself, color outside the lines and not deny that I need help.
And I wish they were happier. But that’s up to them.