Venting: A Rag is a Rag is A Rag

I need a vent. I love my parents and I’m grateful for everything they’ve done for me, but I’m also entitled to my feelings, and my feelings are as follows…

My parents are beginning to get on my nerves. Everything I do or say they comment on and analyze skepticism and careful judgement, that of course is out of love. When I walk into the house with my boots still on because I was carrying in a bag of groceries (and if I kicked my boots off they would lecture me on how that will ruin my shoes), and I get a little bit of mud on the floor they freak out and give me a nagging lecture on how I should not walk into the house with shoes on, especially in the winter. So then like a good daughter should I get a rag to clean up the mud after I take off my shoes and put away the groceries. But as I’m wiping the mud off the floor they watch me meticulously to make sure I get every single spot, and then the criticize the rag I used. Rachel that’s not the right kind of rag! A rag is a rag is a freaking rag! I find myself  having to bite my tongue to not say then why don’t you do it yourself if you don’t like the way I do it!!

I’m so frustrated, everything, EVERYTHING I do is critiqued, analyzed and negatively commented on by them. More often than not to they tell me I’ve done something wrong than the things I’ve done right. They don’t express their pride, until I’ve hit rock bottom. They don’t tell me they love me, until I come to them and tell them I’m hurt.  When I express my feelings they brush them aside. When I told them I was writing  blog, their eyes bugged out, jaws dropped and nagged on me about the dangers of having personal information on the internet. When I cook them dinner, they complain about the dishes. When I do the dishes, they complain about how I put the dishes in the dishwasher. Then they wonder why I’m in a bad mood.

The most recent and most bothersome thing they have been pestering me about is how much time I have left in treatment. In January I was going to treatment 10 hours a day, five days a week. The last couple weeks I’ve been doing great, my weight has been stable and my mental health much better too and I only have to go to the treatment center for 3 days a week for 3 and a half hours. That being said thoughts surrounding my eating disorder still hang in the balance. And my parents just don’t seem to understand or listen to the fact that weight is only half the battle, the real war is the voice inside our head. What are they only empathetic when I’m at my sickest? Why do they only tell me they are proud of me when I’ve realized I’ve hit rock bottom and gather the strength to get out from under. I love my parents, but sometimes I would LOVE a break from them.

 

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