Holy Moly Batman, The Shit’s a Flyin’


GAWD. –flings self to imaginary fainting couch–


No, wait, let’s back up. This weekend. This weekend, my husband talked to his parents (mother’s birthday, father’s day). They live in the Midwest, where they have lived their entire lives. They visit two or more times a year, always for at least a week, always at times they decided without really consulting us, and always I end up feeling like a pillow is being held over my face as the Death Star’s trash compactor moves steadily to crush me.

They are not evil, but they are very, very difficult. I cannot be myself around them, my MIL talks constantly, and it’s hard. So hard that the last two out of three times that I have thrown up (not a puker) have been during a visit from them. My gut routinely goes on a panicked bender.  There are a lot of unresolved familial issues that I, the empath, get highly attuned to and distressed by even as they all blithely ignore it. I feel skinned alive, they want to know “What we’re doing today, honey?”

So the FIL mentions that he’s been looking at houses here “by yous” online. The husband does not take this overly seriously, they have threatened to move here for years and years and years and each time the qualifying event came around (BIL finally settled in good job, Grandmother dead, etc) nothing happened. I mean, they bought an RV and use it to camp at a campground five miles from their house. Adventurous they are not.

Moving forward now to yesterday, The Shrink says that I am dealing with a LOT (understatement, and this is with no reference to the inlaws because they were way beneath my radar) and that maybe I really should go to the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota. I agree. I go home, gird my loins, and file an online request for an appointment. Then I toodle over to the EDNF boards and find string after string of conversations about how badly many EDSers feel they were treated at Mayo Clinic. So I reverse course and go to the health food store and buy some aloe vera juice and decide to embrace the hippie approach.

Except today I’ve read a bunch of stuff about aloe not being so great so I am confused and resentful and kind of back to square one. This is a secret of EDS that I continually forget: There Is Only Square One, and You Are Always There.

It doesn’t sound like much, filling out an online form, changing your mind, buying something for $12 then wondering when the gastrointestinal flood will arrive, or if it will arrive, or if you could maybe stop thinking about it, anyway, so that you don’t cause it, but what if you’ve already caused it then it doesn’t matter. Etc.

Today my mother’s boyfriend (actually, her manfriend, dude is 70) collected the child so he could do some work for him and I had the morning alone, gloriously, alone, alone! But the MIL called. I managed to not speak to her on the phone more than once a year for several years and then we got rid of the land line and she learned my cell phone number. I could choose not to answer but that would inevitably be the time someone died and I’d feel guilty, etc, and probably end up throwing up and getting the intestinal badness. So I answered my phone.

Wherein, she cheerfully told me that they would be showing up soon! soon! and we would be, “House hunting girlfriend, so put on your realtor hat!”

I damn near flat-lined. Uh, aren’t you supposed to ask when would be a good time to visit? [I can tell you that they probably have, and although I said over and over to the husband that he needed to take charge of it he kept putting it off so guess what? They’ll just appear whenever they damn well please, now]. Is there any sort of oh, I dunno, conversation that should be had about expectations and such before you move here?

Yes, but that’s not happening. They don’t talk in this family, they just barge on through.

They like a house that is two story (who wants stairs when they are nearing 70? My inlaws)–a rarity here, and a pool. They’ve seen one online that she said cheerfully, “Doesn’t have any grass but it has a pool!” Yes. There is a tiny pool in an ocean of hot, gray rocks with nary a living thing to shade so much as your little finger. They are not sure about how “Hispanic” some of the houses look. Please move here and then say that in public while I’m with you, I beg you. We *really* need more white people here who hate the culture and the brown people. Please bring your Midwestern whirly-gigs and cut outs of boys peeing in the garden, that’s so much classier. ONLY WHITE PEOPLE PUT ALL THAT NATIVE AMERICAN/HISPANIC SHIT ON THEIR HOUSES. REAL NATIVE AMERICANS/HISPANICS DON’T NEED TO PROVE IT WITH SHITTY KOKOPELLI GATES.

There is a lot of screaming in my head, so I am self-soothing by organizing my fabric closet and listening to Lucinda Williams on Pandora. Short of moving to Fairbanks in the morning, I’m not sure what else there is to do.




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