I have been so busy over the last two weeks, and thus stressed out. The holidays bring too much extra work. Cleaning and shopping and decorating and wrapping and cooking and baking and spending time with the family. It's too fucking much. On top of that, I've been sick, though I seem to be getting slightly better.
I barely got any sleep last night, and then I had to get up and cook for about three hours straight, with my grandmother (who is a mean, outspoken busybody) breathing down my neck and offering her unwanted suggestions on what I should be doing differently, and then everything was ready... and the food sat on the table uneaten and getting cold, because my aunt was late. My aunt knew she would be late and told us to start without her, but some people didn't want to. And then of course my grandmother kept complaining about the food getting cold and about my aunt being late, and everyone was getting sick of listening to it, and I was so tired and my back was hurting so bad, and finally I just told her that no one cared and to stop complaining. And then I immediately felt bad about my outburst, so I just said "Screw it. I don't even want to eat anymore. I'd rather SLEEP."
Then I went into my room and had a good sobby cry, because I'm fucking SICK of working so hard around here with nothing to show for it. My dad used to help me, but now he's grown lazy and expects me to do everything, and then just bitches when I don't do something right, and I'm sick of doing everything by myself and being stuck in the kitchen on the holidays while everyone else has fun, and I'm so afraid that it'll never change.
Anyway, apparently my brother told off my grandmother, and then my mom comforted me and gave me a valium and I was able to eat with everyone else. Mom told me that she'd put up all the leftovers, so I wouldn't have to worry about that.
At first I was grateful. Until just a little bit ago when I finally made it back into the kitchen. The sink was overflowing. The dishes were stacked a foot above the top of the sink. So much that I couldn't even wash anything without first removing half of the dishes, which caused me to knock over and break one of the Christmas dishes. See, when I know there will be a lot of dishes, I don't put them all on top of the damn sink. I stack the extras on the counter, so that I'll actually be able to reach the faucet.
So I had to do all the damn dishes. And then I opened the fridge to see the leftovers stacked haphazardly in every direction, just shoved in there. We have tupperware containers for a reason! Ugh, so then I had to reorganize all of that.
I hate all of this so fucking much. I hate doing it. But if I don't, no one will. And I hate that too. I hate that my parents depend on me for everything. It's like I'm the parent now, and I never chose that. I want to divorce them. I want to fucking run away for a week and see how they like that. I want my dad to get off his ass and start chipping in like he used to. I want a fucking break. I deserve a damn vacation.
Grrrrrrrrrrr.