paradox in paradise

blog entry, existential experience

I am currently living out a strange paradox at the moment on our vacation in Eleuthera, Bahamas.

 

Giving a little bit of context to this story: I am on a vacation for Christmas with my dad and my mom in the Bahamas. We arrived here on Christmas Eve to a rugged, yet uniquely beautiful airport fit to the landscape and theme of the island. From there we departed in our rented car down the bumpy local highway, in disrepair but still quite fun, to the grocery store. I believe it might be the only one on this part of the island.

The store is what put the island into perspective for me, as it was very limited from the opinion of an American. The prices of the items were very high, as a box of Triscuits was $9.50, and a carton of cream was $8. I do think that if food was this expensive in America, we would not take it for granted as we do.

The locals at the grocery store seemed quite friendly and indifferent to the group of white people who arrived to their island for the holidays, but the locals who lived on the road to our villa did not share the same attitudes. As we drove down the rocky dirt road filled with gigantic holes and trenches across, we realized how poor are the people who live here. Piles of trash lay in front of their tiny homes, and their gazes could be described more as glares.

Mom was irritated that the women she waved at did not reciprocate her excitement and friendliness, and expressed her dissatisfaction by exclaiming, “Well, normally when you go down a dirt road, if you wave at someone, it is customary to wave back!” I tried to explain to her that this was a very different culture of African slave descent, and they were probably not too fond of whitey coming through their neighborhood to spend the holidays in the segregated homes that are very much different, compared to their dilapidated huts with their garbage situated in front because they cannot afford to get it taken away.

I am not sure if she understood this, but it is not my job to push this perspective on her.

We had a peaceful first evening here, but I could not help but be bothered by my parents rigid inflexibility that had carried onto the relaxed island. The beginnings of micromanaging and criticisms were showing, and I could feel my defensiveness begin to show as well, but I knew the next day was Christmas, and we are in an island paradise that cannot do anything but help disperse their harsh ideologies of control and order.

Christmas was strange as it did not feel like Christmas at all. We got up and had coffee, made breakfast. I didn’t do much yesterday besides nap, read “At the Existentialist Cafe”, walk on the beach and in the water, and play World of WarCraft (nerd, yes I know).

For dinner, we had lobsters that Dad put on the grill- I was SO excited as they smelled strongly of the sea and were fresh!

However, I could tell things were starting to come to a head as I started to prepare to make rice with my dinner, mom demanded that I put the pot and ingredients away as I did not have enough time before the lobsters were done. I had around 30 minutes, so I figured I would have enough time to make some packaged saffron rice, but I decided not to argue. Subtly brooding at her repression, I slinked outside to help my dad with the lobsters. I got some butter to put on my lobster and this bothered him as he said it could make a mess... I am still not sure how putting butter on mine could make a mess as it was on the grill, but I did it anyway because I did not want dry lobster- it seems silly that I am even typing this out right now, or that we even had this conversation and that I had to convince my dad that it was okay that I put a bit of butter on top of my food as it cooked.

As we had sat down and started to eat, my mother sneered at me, “You need to slow down eating your salad. It is bothering me.” As you can imagine, my reaction could probably be equated to “LOL no,” and I continued to eat, pushing her little try at controlling me away. 
I could feel that my “defiance” caused her unease and irritation to build, and when I poured some melted butter onto my plate to dip my lobster in, she tried another tactic that did in fact succeed in pushing my buttons.

“Do NOT pour that butter on your plate... it is seeping into the corners and you are wasting it. You are being selfish by not dipping your lobster in it... the butter is ONLY meant to be dipped.”

This grated on my nerves and I felt the anger that I only feel whenever she is criticizing me. It starts in my chest and then slowly makes its way to my throat, where it sits, where it always sits and stays. It is old and has been immovable since I was a child. She makes me painfully aware of the pain in my throat that starts in my chest.

I had my fork in my hand as I said, “The reason why I poured the butter is because I figured you would tell me not to dip it. I am confused at how you came to the conclusion that putting something on your plate means that it will be wasted?”

She refuted, “It seeps into the cracks of the plate.”

Lo and behold, this plate had no cracks as it was stainless steel.

Dad then interjected, “Both of y’all need to calm down,” and I shook my head, no. I am done being calm- I am not going to be here on this vacation, in the beautiful and carefree Caribbean, and be constantly and personally nit-picked and criticized and challenged for the simplest and pettiest of actions. It is not going to happen.

I slammed my plate on the table and got up. I had to leave my lobster that I only had a few bites of, but I could not sit there any longer, and I knew she would most likely physically assault me if I brought it into my room as it is messy.

I told them to have a nice dinner and that I was not going to have the simplest of my rights of living trampled on as I eat dinner. They both responded sarcastically, “Have a GREAT night too!”, as I walked down the stairs.

I stayed in my room playing World of WarCraft and reading for the rest of night, until around 10 P.M., I heard the familiar uttering that signals to me my mother is about to have a meltdown. She starts talking quietly about how I have upset her; she cusses, says horrible and mean things, talks about how bad of a person I am, how disrespectful and inconsiderate I am- all this because there was a light in my room that I am assuming was casting some light into hers from the window. I pretended to not hear her, as the door was closed and she could have gotten up to ask me to turn the light off, or even texted me as we got the WiFi to work earlier that day.

Suddenly, she barges into my room without knocking, demanding where her pillows went. I am confused- she told me earlier that morning when we were laying in her bed that I could take two because the ones that were on my bed were very hard.

“I NEED two more pillows in my bed. Where are the ones that you took from me??”, she demands as I am sitting in my bed trying to maintain control over myself.

“Mom, please do not come into my room without knocking,” I firmly say, without emotion, trying so hard to stay neutral and objective.

She continues to ask me about the pillows and I tell her they are on the bed. Her eyes are wide and white, and she looks as crazy as she used to when I was in high school. My stomach feels as though there is a cannonball in my gut and it is weighing down the rest of my body. My head starts to hurt. I feel sick and helpless, but not scared. She never scares me. She makes me angry beyond words, beyond description at her need to control everything around her, at her need to control me, my own person with my own infinite universe, that has no business being under her maniacal and insane reign.

I grab my phone subtly and turned on the recorder, because I wanted to record this conversation. I needed proof, I needed validation that this in fact was happening.

I got a chill as her voice and mannerisms dramatically changed from an irate and sickeningly sarcastic individual, to someone who sounded as if they were trying to seduce a child with candy into their van.

“Miranda, turn your phone off. Turn if off right now.”

“Mom, I need you to knock on the door before you come in my room.”

“Don’t talk to me like that, don’t look at me like that. Take your phone off, Miranda.”

I laughed. “I see the way you change the way you are talking as soon as I record the conversation.”

“No, you’re the one who changed.”

“No, I have not.”

“Yeah you did, you did, you went from being mean to being nice.”


“All I said was to knock on my door before opening it.”

“I am not talking with you. You need help, you need mental help.”

She tried to grab the phone out of my hand and then got in my face, acting as if she was going to assault me. She then turned to leave, and I told her she was being irrational as she walked out of my room and went into hers, where I could hear her spouting off toxic utterances again for about 30 minutes, talking about how I am bitter and angry and a horrible person.

This morning I was awakened at 6:30 to her moving furniture around and stomping up and down the stairs. This was either a release for her need to control, or a release to get back at me for not complying. Whatever the reason, it struck me as incredibly bizarre to be rearranging furniture in a very upscale and nicely decorated vacation home that she does not own herself.

 

Since yesterday, I feel as though I have been riding out on the fringes of a dream within my consciousness, and my awareness has been floating around me in discomfort, isolation and rejection. Being in a new and unknown place that I cannot escape from, while experiencing hostility from the only two people I know here, is not a comfortable feeling. It makes me feel naked and compromised.

I have been reflecting on how her actions last night toward me have shocked me, and how unused I have become to being around this type of abusive behavior. I have reflected on how alone I feel in defending myself against an abusive mother, in how passive my dad is when she is around, and how the only thing in life that he will defend is her, even if she is bullying his own daughter.

I have reflected on how to take more control of this experience and make it my own, and how to not allow her to make me so physically, emotionally and mentally upset. I have reflected on how to not act or feel as a victim, and how to heal my hurt self from the incredibly destructive force that is my mother.

What I have come to the conclusion of is, I still feel victimized. I feel alone. I feel helpless and hopeless. I feel emotionally exhausted, and I feel angry. I feel more tired than I have before and less inclined to fight, but I will never submit to her- I do see how she can wear a person down. My dad gave up, but I will not... I have a choice; I am not tethered by wedding vows or children. The only tethers I have here now on this island is they are my supply for food other than snacks, as I do not have access to the car, but that is it. Side note about food- they left this evening for dinner and did not bring me anything back to eat. I guess I will make a PB&J.

This experience has made me understand how deep inside her illness she has gone. But is it a choice? Or does she truly not have any control of herself? Going from stable to incredibly unstable within a few minutes because someone within her immediate circle does not want to comply to her childish demands is something that is not normal, or should be described as such. My dad thinks it is normal because he has lived with it so long- I sometimes feel bad for him, but maybe he stays with her because he knows how sick she is.

As I do describe it as a mental health issue, there is a large part of me that feels as though it is evil. Pure evil. To terrorize and isolate the only child you have left in order to gain control of them and their autonomous self, seems an inconceivable act. Especially when that child is a successful and good hearted individual who just wants to help and experience this world without hurting anyone else.

I do find solace in the fact that I no longer get consumed in this sadness, but am trying to either live with it, or find my way out. I do not blame my parents for how I feel any longer, and I do not wish her to see how she hurts me. I do not wish to change her anymore. I no longer have the need to prove to her that I do not deserve this treatment, that I am a good person. I am intelligent, and I am a human. I am HUMAN!

I merely just want her to leave me alone and not infringe on my personal space or boundaries, I want her to understand that she does not have the right to push herself on me as she does.

Here, I cannot be free of her terrorizations, but this is the last time I will go somewhere with them in this capacity. I have to protect myself, I have to take care of myself and my own mental health.

Today, I walked around the part of the island we are staying on, and found small adventures where I felt like Huckleberry Finn. I climbed rock cliffs and played in the ocean. I found a plastic bag on the beach and filled it with pieces of trash that is scattered on the rocks everywhere here. I meandered through the jungle and came across caves, carved out by waves and sand. I saw two dolphins. I sat down on a bench that looked onto the water and cried. Not feeling bad for myself, but crying because of how horrid it is to be a human. How ugly it makes me feel to be part of this species, at how ashamed I am to see what my fellow people have done to this planet- and ashamed of the capability we have to hurt our Mother Earth, as well as the people we love and who love us.

Here, I found that there is no way for me to completely love myself or accept this existence as satisfactory and ethical. I think for me, it is loving the goodness and the capability of goodness that I do have, but recognizing that as a human, we are all capable of the bad, the evil, the irresponsibility and the toxicity. It is accepting that I am a part of humanity, that I cannot change, as it is brute fact, but to understand there are loving people and loving acts that these loving people commit; contrarily, there are evil people and evil acts that are committed as well. It is the hold that is held, it is the chiasm and complexity of being human and being conscious in this experience. I do not need to accept my experience and submit to it, but I also do not have to fight it constantly, either. I have choices, but only within my situation. I have the freedom to act and choose within the limits of my external situation. The choice I have is internal, but my choice is within my perception and understanding of myself and the world, which is based on thousands of layers and intricacies that I can only attempt to comprehend or see. I think I am finally grasping what Sartre, Merleau-Ponty, De Beauvoir and all the others have been trying to tell us; and this is why I think they changed their minds all the time.