I Am Just Like an Old Woman Who Does Nothing But Complain

My father read my blog, which he is not supposed to do. It's in a public forum, so he has the same legal and practical rights to read it as anyone else, but our agreement was that my parents would only scan to ensure that I was not divulging information that would jeopardize my safety or that my content was not profane or inappropriate. My parents were otherwise not to offer editorial comment. Their need to scan was limited, anyway, as my English teacher was also monitoring my blog, as it is part of a class assignment. I did use one noun in reference to my father that was either disrespectful or borderline disrespectful, but I otherwise committed no infractions.

Curiosity eventually got the better of my father. He read every word. (This was after I edited the borderline-offensive noun, fortunately. Now you can rack your brain trying to figure out what it might have been, Daddy.) Most fathers would have kept their silence if they had read something they had agreed not to read. My father, of course, didn't. I was forced to listen to a detailed critique of each posting. I didn't even have the freedom to walk out of the room because I can't walk and I couldn't reach my wheelchair.

One might argue that if I want privacy from my parents or anyone else, I shouldn't post the information I'd like to keep from my parents on the Internet. While this is certainly true, I still feel violated by the breach of our verbal contract. Life, however, must go on, as must this blog if I wish to receive credit for the english class assignment. (Dear Ms. Teacher: Please keep in mind that I have to type with one hand. I probably deserve extra credit for my one-handed typing, as posting an entry takes much longer that way.)

One of my father's most salient criticisms of my blog (there were far too many to give mention to each) is that all I now write about is my current state of health. He likened my blog to a conversation one might have with virtually any person over sixty-five. Often, he says, all that person can talk about is his or her health. He says I have become very much like these people, and that my blog is his evidence in point.

What, exactly, does he expect me to blog about? I suppose I could give a detailed accounting of the textured formations in the ceiling directly above my bed. I could write about thread counts in sheets. (Two of my sheet sets have a decent thread count, while the third set chafes my skin. My parents would never put such cheap sheets on their own bed or even on my brother's bed, but they have no problem casting them off on their less-favored child.)I could blog about how I am expected to change my own bedding daily even though I have only one usable hand and can't balance well on one foot, and half the time I end up falling, and then I get yelled at for being careless and falling. My parents don't want me to become spoiled and self-indulgent, which I understand, but it seems like they're erring too far in the opposite direction. I just can't win here. I could and sometimes do write about what I watch on television, but do you really want to know the finer points of Steve Wilkos or Jerry Springer each day? Other than TruTV and the judge programs (Thank God for "Judge Alex") there's not a whole lot of quality programming available during the day. I could write about how my mom and the Monsignor are still angry at one another and how I'm being denied Holy Communion as a result even though I didn't say or do anything wrong that I know about, but I'm sure my mom would prefer that I say even less than I've already said about it. I could share the gossip my friends have shared with me, but doing such would be a breach of confidentiality. Furthermore, if I did that, they would no longer share anything really juicy with me.

So I have to write this blog in order to fulfill the requirements of an English class assignment. I have nothing about which to write. If I write about what's going on in my life, my father will apparently read it and complain. It's boring. No one knows that better than I, because it's my life. I'm living it, and I'm bored as he!!, but I have to write it to get credit.

Right after my accident, my parents were extremely nice. It now seems that their niceness toward me has exceeded its statute of limitations. I understand that they're tired of me, because I'm tired of myself. I'd love to leave for awhile and give them a break, but I can't go anywhere by myself. My mom was complaining to me because she and my dad couldn't go out to dinner by themselves for my dad's birthday because of me. I'm sorry!

I ruined Mother's Day, too. I gave my brother money to buy a present for my mom. I told him what to get and where to get it. In order to compensate him for his trouble, I gave him $50.00 of his own so that he could buy his own present for my mom, because he doesn't work and hardly ever has money. He bought his present for my mom (using about half the money I gave him for it and pocketing the rest) but didn't have time to pick up my gift. So my mom is totally hurt, and my dad is angry at me. What was I supposed to do?

This is a pathetically self-pitying post, but my life is pathetic at the moment. I know things will eventually get better, but for now I am 16-year-old old lady who talks about nothing but my health and the miserable state of my life. Dad, if you are looking for uplifting reading material, try reading your Bible.