777

777. That’s the number of times you are supposed to forgive someone. Well, not literally. Much like 144,000, or 7 days of creation, 40 days in the desert, and 40 days and nights of rain, 777 is a metaphorical number signifying completeness. Sorry, numerous heretical Christian and pseudoChristian sects, but those Biblical numbers are more than just black and white.

I thought I had forgiven my parents. I had. But the number 777 implies a process. You keep forgiving until the job is done. Sometimes things come to light that you didn’t know before, or ignored because it was too psychologically painful to handle.

It must be that my brain started to open up, or God revealed to me something that I hadn’t realized and was not ready to realize until now. I still don’t want to believe its true. It would feel better to not know what I know.

My biological dad runs his own business. Business, while I was in college, was very good in spite of a terrible economy. He got audited by the IRS every year I was in college. He claimed it was because he had his own business and kids going to college at the same time. I always accepted that lie, even when friends with parents who had businesses told me that that sounded odd. While I was in college my parents had money to go out to nice restaurants on a semi regular basis. They bought nice things for my brother and gave him cash. On rare occasions I would get very little cash for something I really needed. It usually wasn’t really enough but I am great at being frugal and thrifty. Plus, I never felt entitled to anything. Their money, their rules, right?

The thing is during college I practically lived in my van. Home was an unsafe place to be so I was back at midnight and out by 6 am. I barely had enough gas money to make the commute, and always drove praying that something else wouldn’t break down on me. My van even had a name “Deathbox on Wheels” because it was infamous for doing crazy things like turning off in the middle of traffic, or deciding that a left turn would really make a great right turn at the last second, or it would suddenly charge forward like a demon possessed transportation nightmare- usually about when I would be stuck behind an old driver or some other vulnerable person.

My van was finally sold to the junk yard after the breaks went out going down a steep hill during my “honeymoon” in my home town.

During college I relied on myself, my husband, and kind friends for food. It was embarrassing and some days I would maybe just eat a yogurt (75 cents). I actually did eat some food someone just left once, feeling ashamed the whole time and hoping nobody saw. I couldn’t eat at home because my mere presence would enrage my mother, and any leftovers were saved for someone else until they rotted and she could throw them out.

One semester I worked 2 jobs, did well over 100 hours of classroom supervising (obviously no pay) and volunteer work, and 18 credits, most of which were not in my native language. I did that to get out of college quicker so that my debt would quit climbing.

Speaking of debt, I had barely enough money for books. In fact I went part of the semester without books in almost all of my classes. Thank God for helpful students who let me photocopy pages. It goes without saying that I didn’t have enough for nice clothes. I still wore what I had from high school- raggedy, stained, full of holes clothes. So I used a credit card to get books and gas and food…and I’m still paying that off due to usurious interest rates.

Don’t misunderstand. There are people in the world that have it FAR worse than I ever did. I at least had clothes, and could eat something, and had a lot f friends to help me. Many people don’t get to go to college- my husband never made it last elementary school due to poverty. So I am thankful for what I did have. No thanks to my biological parents.

The point is, during my entire time at college I had little food, almost no access to healthcare, was stressed and living in my van, and just at my wit’s end tryin to make ends meet and my biological parents meanwhile, lived very well.

They stopped living well after I graduated and began to pay back loans. The thing is, they had taken out loans too, to “help out”. And it was understood that I was going to owe then for being so “gracious”. They took out PLUS loans. I covered all of my tuition. I had scholarships am loans to cover what I couldn’t pay outright, and there was rarely enough left over for anything- not one dollar.

The PLUS loans were supposed to go towards gas and living expenses. They were supposed to be how parents help their kids- that is their original purpose.

I must not have wanted to accept the facts. I remember going in and talking with a Sister about getting a loan so that I could get an apartment. (My college was “Catholic” in a very loose way) I was told I couldn’t, since PLUS loans had already been applied for and granted. The Sister seemed alarmed and confused that they weren’t enough for me to live independently.

After a certain point I didn’t hear what she was saying. I am convinced it was because my brain knew but my heart did not want to accept.

My parents were taking the loans in their name that were supposed to be applied to me and were pocketing if not everything, then close to.

That part isn’t what hurt me so much. After all, I just realized this a couple of days ago. This is after learning that my biological dad tried to use me to lie to the IRS, and he’s always lied about the amount of money he gives to charity (zero).

What hurt me is remembering how I was in his office, crying my heart out because I couldn’t get an apartment and had to stay at “home” with an abusive mother. No matter how I stretched my dollars, I had no money to escape, even with a roommate or two. Even with the money I could save by biking to school, and I was willing to walk through snow too.

That bastard knew what I was going through. He knew I had no food, no clothing, was driving a van that had already almost killed me, and was at my wit’s end. And not only did he stand by and fail me by letting me be abused, he took away what should have been there to support me. And then he watched me sob and pretended to feel bad for me and just sighed and said “I’m so sorry that’s how life is”, all the while living nicely off my misery.

And then he and my biological mother had the gall to try to make me pay for their misuse of money that was intended to help me with college. All so they could use me, all so they could control me, all so they could continue to abuse me. Oh and money, which they blame for abuse they claim they can’t remember. And they want thanks and money for what they did.

That’s sick. That is an onion of sick- layer upon layer of sick and wrong.

I keep wishing I am delusional. I keep praying that I am the “bad daughter”. I don’t want to believe my parents are that sick, and yet here is the ugly truth. They are sick. I have to forgive them.

Before, I still had a sliver of hope that someday, maybe when they were old and dying, I could see them again and they would have somehow had a conversion that made them into better people. Now, I don’t. I don’t. It’s like a pedophile- they’re unsafe and highly unlikely to reform. Can a pedophile reform and not molest children? Yes. Is it remotely likely? No. Have I ever seen a pedophile try or succeed? Never, and I have known a few pedophiles, because my biological parents left me open to abuse (thanks be to God, I was never molested).

Right now I don’t know if I’m capable of forgiving. I haven’t properly grieved yet. I’m still running from it to an extent. All I can think is “why?”

My best friend asked me if I would try to sue. I wouldn’t know where to start, and I don’t want to. I feel like being the demon in the Porky Pig cartoon- “So it’s MONEY you want, eh? WELL HAVE ALL THE MONEY YOU CAN HANDLE!”

Besides. They’re already not well off. All that thieving and scheming has left them pretty much where they started. I don’t want to punish them- God is much better at punishing than I am. Even if I were to sue, they wouldn’t be able to pay me back and have enough to live. They will be elderly soon, and I am not the sick person they are. I hope they will live as comfortably as their spoils will allow.

I just never want to see them again. Ever.

I give up

I didn’t even get a chance to fill out the app, much less an interview. Some lady who doesn’t even have interpreter training got the job before it even posted.

Because its all who you know. It doesn’t matter how hard working you are, how ridiculously over qualified you are, how honest, friendly, and willing to bend over backwards you are for the chance to maybe not live like a slave. No, it doesn’t matter.

All you need to get a job is to know the right people and hey presto you have a job and even a promotion. Go ahead and hit on your workers, including the married ones. Be lazy, drink yourself into alcoholism, don’t go to college. Abuse your kids and be irresponsible with money. Do all that, but kiss the right ass and you will get everything you will never appreciate.

After that, bash the generation that was constantly threatened that if we didn’t get good grades and go to college, we’d end up working at McDonald’s. Call that generation lazy and entitled for wanting what we were promised- that if we worked out asses off, took out excessive loans, and got scholarships we would gain a job we could maybe like but would at least be worth all the hard work we did because we’d be starting better than if we had just dropped out of high school.

Nobody told us that the barely literate alcoholic football player from high school would never go to college, but he would get to be a supervisor who sends out emails so badly worded people wonder if English really is his first language. He would get to be a supervisor right out of high school, all because his darling, enabling coach found him a job.

Nobody told us that after avoiding parties, studying hard, and working two part time jobs during college all we could look forward to working was the same two part time jobs. Jobs that would disappear as soon as we graduated, or got married, or committed the ultimate modern day sin of conceiving naturally at a natural age.

Nobody told us that we’d be “lucky” to work three jobs with no benefits, no way to be promoted, no way to apply anything we had learned, no insurance, and that those three jobs barely cover rent let alone food. And then we would get fined (oh sorry, “taxed”) for being too poor for Obamacare and yet not qualifying for Medicare. (Let’s be fair, the conservatives were telling everybody but well…Obama is going to bring change and fart rainbows everywhere!)

So go ahead and bash my generation. And for the record, this is on an iPhone. Because, you middle aged middle class pot bellied white prick, the only Internet I can get is on the phone, on a family plan that allows me 1.5 gb per month. Because 35 dollars a month is all I can afford for phone and Internet, which isn’t just for spreading chain letters written in comic sans, watching stupid Youtube videos, and posting memes on Facebook.

Not that it really does me any good, but I actually use this damn device to apply for jobs I will never have. Oh, how selfish I am. I should totally have gotten a more expensive, useless phone that couldn’t access the Internet so I could feel smug about it.

Yep. Fuck it.

Jeans

One thing I have learned from my recent foray into shopping with my husband:

Some men apparently don’t understand that there are different styles of jeans, and its not so much your size that counts. Especially when you’ve lost a ton of weight.

Oh fashion bitches, why is it that flares are now forbidden? Why are there only 3 main styles, maybe 4 if you count the puke worthy “jeggings”?

You’ve got your skinny jeans. Ugly, uncomfortable, ass-flattening skinny jeans. They make petite girls look like they bought their clothes from a kids store. They make medium sized girls look like billboards and they make thick girls look like fatasses. What’s the matter, fashion industry? Are you guys so ugly that you have to make everyone else look bad so you look good by comparison? In all cases, skinny jeans ruin a good butt by taking all the shape out of it and squishing the shapely bits into a board shape.

“Straight” jeans. Jeans that go up past your belly button, make your legs look like Lincoln logs,and scream out “MOM”. They bring to mind feathered mullets, acid wash denim, and white trash ramblings from an old Roseanne episode.

“Boot cut” jeans manage to marry the worst parts of straight jeans with skinny jeans. Not only do the pants basically soar up to your boobs, they flatten the ass and make it impossible to wear a comfortable pair of tennis shoes without looking like an idiot. I’m sorry, starving models and their pervy photographers,but some of us live an actual life where we do this weird thing called “walking”.

All I can say about jeggings is that if I wanted to wear tights in public, I’d buy a reasonably priced pair of tights. Not an overpriced pair of jeans that I pour myself into. For that matter why not just slap some body paint on?

I want my flares back. I want comfort and style, and i want the freaking 80’s to STAY DEAD. And if people want to get rid of that muffin top problem, they should maybe think about going up a size or 6.

By the way, fashion industry: screw all your ugly asses, and your terrible clothes too.