The freedom of Anger (and finding out who you're really supposed to be)

This past weekend I hit a wall. A wall of anger.

I became angry at my grandmother for not understanding that I can't be her entire life. I was angry at my godmother, pretty much my only family, for not at all understanding my situation and for being the type of person who believes you are supposed to live your life for everyone else. And I was angry at myself.  Angry for allowing the boundaries of my life and who I am get flattened like wimpy blades of grass.

I am so burnt out. I am so frustrated. I am so tired of what feels like near daily trips to the guilt guillotine, whenever I talk to my grandmother.  It's my fault that's she no longer 25 years old and can not do the things she used to do. It's my fault that she's outlived her husband and two kids. It's my fault that she has severe anxiety and worries if I don't call her every single day to tell her I'm okay.
It's my fault that her other white-trash grandchildren don't keep in touch with her. And of course, it's my fault that I am an adult and do not need her to take care of me.

And facing that anger (finally) made me realize this has gone too far.

It wasn't the frustration, or the fear of yet another looming, lonely birthday staring me in the face. It wasn't the fact that since my dad passed eight years ago and I stepped in to take care of my grandmother, I have not been able to sustain a permanent job or relationship. It was the anger of it all that hit me like a sack filled with bricks. The anger of feeling controlled and being a bucket for which my grandma throws all of her dirty, sorrow-filled blame rags into. And with an open mouth, I kept gobbling it up. For eight years.

This blog was supposed to be about being a middle-class socialite. About living a somewhat free journey of transformation. But I don't have that freedom.
I am not who I am supposed to be. Then again, I don't even know who I am supposed to be.

I've always been fascinated by those women who led glorious, fantastic, unapologetic lives. Tied down by no one, bursting with talent and personality and passion. Their lives filled with interesting people. Maybe it's a fantasy, and like facebook happy details were highlighted. And mostly these women I admire lived during the 20's and 30's, but whatever. Diana Vreeland. I love her 'I'm who I am and don't care what you think' approach to anything and everything. And whatever wasn't entertaining or over-the-top about her life, she made up.
These women traveled everywhere. Lived every breath good and bad, with adventure. Even if those adventures weren't daily, they were there lurking around the corner, ready for the taking.

That's what I want.

Instead, yesterday I had to listen to my grandma chide me for not calling her back right away.  I was really busy that day with job interviews and phone calls, and had intended to call her later in the afternoon.

She was upset because I ordered several things off Amazon and had them delivered to her house. She was upset because the box was large and she had to struggle to push it into the other room (which I did not expect and felt bad). But, I think she was most upset because I took away yet another excuse for her to ask me to do something for her. Her way of pulling me to come visit her.


Now, I'm struggling to find a caregiver for her, and she's of course resistant to that idea. God-forbid I should live my own life.

Hopefully when all of this is over there will be a sliver left of being able to live my life. After all, since the day I was born, I've had to be the blame bucket for all of my mother's insecurities as well .

I am so done. That box of sleeping pills looks more and more delicious every day.

Everything

She needs me to be her everything. Because her everything died twenty-some years ago.
And again, thirteen years ago.  And yet again, eight years ago.
Somehow along the way, I've made myself responsible for her tragic circumstances. Because my heart bled for my poor, aging grandma. Because she's family. Because I love her. And because there is no one else.

She needs me to be her companion, her cook, her chauffeur, her therapist, her friend, her granddaughter, her caretaker. For 8 years, in some way, shape or form I have been.

It's the 'need' that is suffocating me. The 'need' is a vampire sucking the life from my soul.
The guilt of feeling suffocated is crushing me.

Yesterday she called me. "I'm sick," her voice cracked over the phone, sounding like someone trying to play hooky from work on a warm, sunny day.
Her ailment was not illness, it was loneliness. And I am her panacea.

Her doctor suggested, multiple times, a therapist to deal with the anxiety.         She said no.
I suggested living in the same active senior community with her sister.             She said no.
The adult center, where seniors play games and enjoy luncheons is nearby.      She said no.
Repeatedly, I brought up the idea of a part-time caregiver.                                She said No.

Why should she. She has me.

I am not in my 60's and retired. I'm not even 40, yet. And because I'm an independent woman, The guilt swallows me for being busy. For her self-pity. No time for the woman who's not busy at all.  "I don't call to say hi because I know you're busy. I don't want to bother you."

My mother used to do the same thing. When I decided I didn't want to be her therapist anymore,
I was made to feel guilty.  "I don't talk to you anymore, because I know you don't like it."

No relationship can survive when one person is wholly dependent on the other.  Its a simple fact.

She needs a life outside of me. Despite her advancing age, her mind is still pretty sharp, sharper than her slowly, crumbling body.

Now after 8 years, I realize I can no longer be responsible for the obstacles she puts in her own way.
I have my own obstacles to deal with.

All I want is to just be her granddaughter.

Not her her everything.