normal schnormal

I am angry and I don’t know why. I’ve vented it out on our dog and on the glasses I was washing earlier. I do not ordinarily resort to animal cruelty (unless you consider smothering them with affection cruelty) and I’m usually careful when doing the dishes, but I haven’t been feeling normal lately either. Nothing in my life is going the way I want it to be. Everything just sucks, from the moment I wake up (which is around noon) to the moment I lay my head on my pillow. I’m starting to think that everyone and everything, including my dry frizzy hair, are conspiring against me. But then we all know that’s not true. I mean, why should they waste their time thinking of ways to torture me when they can just ignore me? The outcome is the same, so why bother? Who am I to merit such attention?

I’m either undergoing post-graduation depression, some sort of identity crisis, or an imbalance in my hormones. No, I’m not suicidal nor tempted to self-mutilate again. Not because I don’t want to, mind you, but because such actions are not feasible in this house. You see, my aunt’s meat processing plant is right next to our house, so our place is rarely empty. Up front is the office and selling area, so there would always be people there. At the back would be the kitchens and dining areas (we have two each, one for the workers and another for our family), and our workers hang around there during break time. It’s usually empty inside the house during the day, save for meal times and when one of our staff comes in to look for my parents or my aunt. Blah blah blah. Come and visit me here so you’d see, eh?

I guess it’s this house that’s driving me crazy. There are just so many people doing so many things that my internal balance is thrown, well, off balance. Maybe eight years of living away from home taught me twisted kinds of independence and autonomy. I’m still dependent on my parents and aunts for food and money, but aside from those, I want nothing to do with these oldies. I hate it when they order me around, especially when I’m in the middle of something, or when I’m about to do something. I hate it when I have to take my meals at certain times, and I can’t ask for anything else when I don’t like the ulam. I hate it when I have to take my sister to her summer class everyday, and that I have to watch my baby brother at dusk because his yaya has to go home. I hate it when I have to wake up earlier than I would have wanted. I hate it when I have to wait for my turn to use the bathroom, and that I have to take a bath quickly because somebody else is going to use it. I hate it when I can’t the surf the internet whenever and for as long as I want because all our phone lines are used for the business. I hate it here, dammit.

I’m so used to living on my own that I can’t stand living with my family anymore. For eight years I was my own boss, doing whatever and whenever I please. I had roommates, yes, but that was of no consequence. The worst that could happen was the silent treatment, and it wasn’t that dreadful. In contrast, I don’t think I could last another week in this house. I want to go back to Manila, to my pseudo-independent existence, but then again, what am I going to do there? It’s not as if a job is already waiting there for me. Oh dear. I need help fast. I feel like a volcano about to erupt. And to think I went home so I can relax before plunging into unemployment. This is exactly what I predicted, that my jobless state would just ruin this summer.

Somebody please take me to the beach. Or a mental institution.