den of thieves

Last night's dinner was six flavors of disaster. No, that's dramatic, it wasn't a disaster, it was just exactly what I didn't want it to be. I'm torn as to whether or not I should detail the whole conversation, mostly because I suspect I'll end up writing out the dialog in such a way that makes him clearly an asshole, when really the killer of an argument like this one was that he was subtle and passive aggressive and surreptitiously cruel so that when I reviewed the conversation in my head and again on the phone with Kate, I couldn't really point to anything specific that he said that was so awful on it's own, but the tone of voice, the innuendo, the facial expression...and yet I feel like a lunatic because I can't express what was so horrible about it.

Most of the meal was fine enough until he began making references to Mom and whether or not she was happy, I mean, actually happy (where DOES this kind of thing come from?). I was proud to confirm that yes, she really was very happy, to which he'd begun to say things like "well I'm sure she THINKS she's happy" and "lets not forget, your mother's an excellent actress" and "she's made some lifestyle choices that are indicative of a person in chaos and in trouble" and "I've talked to some people who've been around her and they say she seems angry as ever." "Like who, Dad? " (I really really tried hard not to be baited but I was) so he mentioned Dennis Regan which made me laugh because I don't think Mom's seen Dennis and Elizabeth since Kate's wedding, and Dad doesn't like me smirking at him and launches into this angry tirade, the gist of which is that my mother clearly doesn't let herself be known to me, that she lives without her children as priorities (he's yelling now, and saying 'fucking' alot with that angry sharp tone) and if I think I know her I don't, and this is no differen't than when I was younger and wanted her to be closer than she was to me but because she was out going on dates and he was dutifully home with Peter and I, of course he looked like the bad guy. He needled me about being so protective of her, saying that it was clearly still an open sore on my soul, that it was likely the cause of my loneliness and the bulimia. He continued on to explain that he spent the whole twelve years of the divorce protecting me from my mother and his opinions about her at which point I interjected "Dad, you still get to protect me from your opinions about her" and that made him yell more. People at nearby tables were staring, I was firecely trying not to cry. "I'm sorry, Mollie, I thought I was talking to a FUCKING adult who could handle some truth! Apparently I'm wrong."

We left, quietly, and walked down the street a little ways, where we stopped at a corner. He kept repeating "this is not good, Mollie". When he says my name it sounds like Mah-lyy; it's not soft anymore. The syllables of my name feel like weapons when he uses them.
"So what now?" he says, looking suddenly distanced and hurt.
"I don't know what to say, Dad."
To which he responds "Families don't leave eachother bloodied on the floor."
"I agree, Dad, but I dont' think either of us are bloodied on the floor, that feels dramatic to me. I do think you're being cruel and selfish."
"That hurts my feelings, Mollie," he's using soft syllables now because he's retreating and I think seeking my sympathy a little. "I don't know what to say, Dad. I'm going now." And I went. I cried as I walked away but only because he can't see my face. I don't like crying in front of him because it means he's definitely won.

Sigh.

So this morning I woke up and went down to a museum on the fenway where the Children's Chorus was performing (concert choir and young men's choir) where I wrangled young singers, took them to the bathroom, got them warmed up, made sure their uniforms were presentable, and then dismissed them to their parents after they sang. It's a cold columbus day morning and the sky's grayer than yesterday. I'm going to study for the GRE's and then...I dunno. I'm pretty glum. I feel, lately, entirely unexcited aboutmost everything in my world. Mum's on my case about the Wellbutrin, but when I've talked to Bill about it he asks if I think I've honestly done everything I can to work through how I'm feeling. And honestly, no, I haven't. I really need to.

I think I'm not sleeping enough, and I'm fantasizing nearly every day of getting in my car (from here on out named Sid -- thanks mum! --) and juuuuust driving. I don't even want to go anywhere specific (well, I mean, I do have some ideas, but mostly it's just about getting the fuck out of Boston. This isn't my city.