Gimme Those Guns and Handcuffs
4:50 p.m. I’d say it’s just my luck. Oxford just sent me something through snail mail. One of their colleges is considering me for application, but of all the colleges, it just HAS to be Saint Hilda’s, the all-WOMEN’S college. Argh! Well, I’m taking whatever’s coming my way. After all, Saint Hilda’s is simply a residence dorm and I don’t necessary take CLASSES at Oxford, per se. I have a private tutor, which is really quite nice. But…ARGH!
5:14 p.m. Of course. OF COURSE! St. Hilda’s is the ONLY college at Oxford University that still remains all-women! *huffs in frustration* There were four women’s colleges but the rest all went co-ed a VERY long time ago. ARGH!
5:18 p.m. *mystified* St. Hilda’s has a three-course meal for dinner! Whoa…
5:20 p.m. Damn, their dorm rooms look like hotel suites…
5:21 p.m. You know…despite being all-women’s…it’s sounding quite nice…
5:26 p.m. Okay. I’m sold. Since I wouldn’t be interacting with guys in class anyway, why the hell not go to an all-women’s college? After all, all my learning is done one-on-one with a tutor. Heck! Bring them on!
5:28 p.m. Oh never mind, guys DO take classes at St. Hilda’s. Then why the hell is it an all-female college? *confused* Is it segregated living arrangements?
6:15 p.m. This is the second time in the past five days that I’ve blown up with Mum about colleges.
I hate her sometimes.
No.
I don’t hate her.
I love my mother.
But no word can describe the frustration, annoyance, love, and bitterness that I harbour towards her.
I suppose to put it inadequately, it could be hate.
I got this letter from St. Hilda’s and then she immediately turns frosty and cold about my entire Oxford application.
“I don’t think you should go,” she said.
She couldn’t even be remotely happy for me? Happy that I even got CONSIDERED for admissions?
“It’s all-women’s. And of less academic repute than the other Oxford colleges.”
As if she knew. She’s been accusing me of knowing nothing about the college process, nothing about applying overseas. She hands me this big fat tome to read called How to Get into the Top Colleges. I skimmed through it perfunctorily, preferring to gather my information from Oxford University itself.
And then she gets all pissed. Oxford said that it could be advantageous for me to submit an open application. My chances are increased because the college that is the mostly likely to accept me will offer me a position.
However, this book, which Mum treats as her Bible, says that it ISN’T advantageous to submit an open application.
I pointed out that I’d rather take the word of the university over some guy’s opinion (who, I gather, didn’t attend a British university).
Then she blew up.
I never did research apparently.
“You’re not going to St. Hilda’s,” she said. “I’m not paying for it.”
For gods’ sakes, I have to be ACCEPTED first.
She’s never encouraging.
When I got my invitation to interview for Oxford, she treated it as though it were no big deal. “Oh, everyone gets offered an interview.”
Well, no, not everyone actually.
It was only after Dad prodded her a bit that she grudgingly offered me congratulations.
She thinks I have an inflated opinion of myself and of my independence. What she doesn’t realize that my behaviour is in reaction to hers. I may seem pompous and overconfident, but that’s only because I really feel like I’m a piece of shit.
I hate myself really.
I hate how I can’t control my emotions, I hate the fact that I’m not smart enough, I hate the fact that I can’t play piano like Beethoven or paint like da Vinci.
But most of all I hate the fact that I’m not perfect.
I’m ugly.
I’m fat.
I’m dumb.
I have not an iota of talent.
I’m illiterate.
Others can tell me different: I’m pretty, I’m perfect, I’m smart, I’m talented, and well-read.
I won’t believe it.
It’s not modesty, or even a false sense of it.
I’m simply not worthy.
One wonders why I haven’t committed suicide before this.
Gimme those guns and handcuffs and let me end my miserable existence.
But I can’t just let it go.
Why die without a fight?
Why pass from this world without leaving your mark, without trying your best to change it?
I can’t just give up.
Which is why my mother and I fight constantly.
Neither of us can believe we’re wrong; we always feel as though WE’RE the ones that have been wronged. She can’t understand my feelings and I can’t understand her rationale.
Or so she thinks.
Believe me, I can.
I understand exactly where she’s going from.
She’s a manipulative, controlling bitch.
But aside from that aspect of her nature, she came from a culture in which children treated their elders differently. Independence for a woman is never fully achieved. Her welfare is passed directly from her father to her husband.
I’m proud of my mother.
But because she had so little control over her own life when she was younger, she has a compulsive need to control everything else.
Her appearance. Her vanity is vanity, but is also an extension of control. She needs to control her appearance, so she may control how others react to her.
Her children. She loves us. She wants to protect us from harm. She wants to protect us from making mistakes. And the only possible way she can achieve this is to control every aspect of our lives.
When things don’t go her way, she becomes angry.
She’s lost control.
Perhaps it’s this fear of losing control is what makes her less than forthcoming on emotional and moral support.
Gods, and I already have your typical teenage angst to deal with.
