Monday, Apr. 09, 2018 - 7:26 a.m.

Each Chekhov story is like a jewel. Or a small bite of something flavorful and rich. I want to plow through the book but I really can’t because the flavor of one story lingers so long, it would ruin it to begin another before the flavor of it fully fades from my mind.

I read one yesterday in which I would describe the main character as autistic, as his behaviors and actions are portrayed. It was a description of his “nervous breakdown” after a period of intense perseveration on something. All the details fell together perfectly. The book it’s in is free on Gutenberg, here if you’re interested: http://www.gutenberg.org/files/1732/1732-h/1732-h.htm#link2H_4_0001

Mom came over for dinner last night. It was fine.
“I talked to your cousin Tim. He said to me, “I saw on Facebook that your daughter has lost weight!” “
Godammit, Tim.
You would think if I put it on Facebook I would be ok with her noting it, but I’m not. The weight stuff is so sensitive. Yes, I am happy about it. Yes, I want people to send me “attagirls”. Do I want her to? No. I want nothing. No acknowledgment, certainly no approval.

(This is my key to understanding U: I understand rejecting approval under certain circumstances).

Later we had some of the pie she brought. I plated some for e but he didn’t want it, so I ate it, but she didn’t notice. “Are you resisting eating the pie?”, she asks. FUCK YOU AND YOUR FUCKED UP RELATIONSHIP WITH FOOD “No. I had some already.”, I was pleased to answer.

I didn’t really want any of the pie, but I had some just so she wouldn’t see me denying myself things in a way that would please her worldview.

I just shut down around her now, more or less. I can hardly stand to be in the room with her even when she hasn’t done anything objectionable at all. Her constant talking is a demand that wears on me. Her attempts to bond by asking me questions just make me retreat further. I hate it. I have to get up and leave every 15 minutes or so to keep from being hostile.

Wasn’t planning to tell her about the tattoo, but I do plan to tell facebook, so I guess she’ll find out. Snitches get stitches.

�