Got some writing done. Also proofed my bro’s work, helped with dishes (drying silverware and plates, not heavy pans), and cleaned a couple of surfaces that hadn’t been cleaned for the 5 weeks I was in my cast. Doing my exercises; seeing progress but still hating them.
My bro managed to stop me short. I just had no comeback, no reply for his behaviour. I brought up The Handmaid’s Tale – again. Bad idea. Within 2 minutes, my bro was screaming at me about how it was terrible that something that was currently going on had to be minimised through fictional telling. Sometimes he acts like he’s the woman and I’m the man. He thinks he’s a feminist. In truth, he’s as patriarchal as any right wing idiot. His shit just shut me completely down. And I mean completely. All that’s left is a lingering desire for revenge.
It’s influencing my writing.
I can never share this story with my brother. He’ll recognise it right away, and take issue. Good thing, then, that he’s shown zero interest in anything I’ve written over the past five years. This could become a best seller before he’d try to read it. And even then, I doubt he’d take the time to read it all. He’d get to about page two and then he’d be yelling at me from down the hall: “Is this supposed to be me?” I suppose there’s always the chance that his thick skin is so thick he won’t recognise himself when written in the very worst possible manner. After all, he does call himself a feminist even though he doesn’t have clue one about being a woman and often derides females as they’re portrayed in the media and entertainment industry.
I am supposed to rise above it all, and not take issue with hearing the C word fifty times in an evening rant. If I give tit for tat, and go off on all men, I’m brought up short.
This is wearing on me. The obvious disregard for basic cleanliness (why? because it’s women’s work) has always been an issue. 99 times out of 100, it’s me doing all the dishes. Me, cleaning the toilet. Me, hoovering up the dust bunnies. In truth, I can’t tell you the last time my bro used the hoover. A year ago? More? Shoulda made a mark on a calendar. Thrown it in his face a few times. But I’m tired of the ensuing arguments and antics. So I shut up and put up with it. I think many women are in the same sort of space: their partners do not pick up their fair share of housework, leaving the bulk of it to the ‘female’ or ‘feminine’ in the relationship. Men toss this off as ‘You’re just cleaner than I am,’ or ‘Honestly, I was just going to do that myself.’ Or, at least, that’s the shit I hear. After so many years of living together, you’d think my bro would try something else. But, no. Just the same old favourites, over and over.
I suppose by not trying something else, he can retain the illusion that I’m buying it. I’m not, and haven’t for a long time. I also know it won’t change. Yes, he picked up a certain amount of slack while I was down and out. Half the dishes got done just about every day. That means that half didn’t get done, and the kitchen was in a continual state of disarray. I won’t even begin to describe the toilet; it’s disgusting. I could make a long braid with the dust bunnies on the floor.
What I’d give for some cleaning help! One super big day, with healthy young people full of energy, ready to scrub every surface before I can turn around.
Instead, picking up the bottle of coffee milk with my left hand hurt this morning. The damned bottle was too heavy, and it only holds 250ml. Not much I can do other than my exercises and wait. Somehow find some patience.
But my patience is in short supply. With my wrist, with my brother, with the weather. The best I can do is pour all that frustration into my writing. *sigh* It helps, to a point. Not entirely. Now I have to marshal my thoughts into proofing some new material from my bro, because if I don’t I’ll “slow him down”.
Fuck it. Just bite the bullet. How many times we, as women, say that! Whether we are raped in thought, in word, or in fact, that same thought occurs time after time.
Just fucking get it over and done with, in the quickest fashion.