From 8am-4pm. Working at the prison pharmacy where my Aunty also works.
Even though don’t really want to be working, at least it distracts my mind from thinking about everything when I just concentrate on packing those Webster Packs.
Working at the same place as my Aunty, well…
Already before today I was starting to stress about the lunch break. I don’t usually eat lunch when I’m at Uni but because my Aunty would be there I did try to bring something to eat- three pieces of sushi. I know it may not seem like a lot to others but for me that was more than I usually had for lunch. So, a small achievement right? Except then my aunty sees and says, ‘You’re only eating that?!’
She then makes me toast while I was in the bathroom and insisted that I eat it. I know she was trying to care by making me that toast.
But. Inside. I. Was.
Now and then I might decide to make toast for myself. I mean, it’s not like I don’t eat toast. But when someone is forcing me to eat something and I have no choice about it- that’s when I start panicking. I did eat the toast though.
It’s weird. If someone offers me lets say a cookie and I had no obligation to eat it, I might actually take one and eat it without too much hassle.
But in the situation last year, when my friend said, ‘I made cookies and I brought one for you especially so that you could try it,’ I started panicking then because I knew I had NO CHOICE if I didn’t want to hurt her feelins.
I guess maybe it’s about control. As cliche as it sounds. The more I’m forced to eat, the less inclined I am to.
After work I went with my Aunty to a community pharmacy because she needed to purchase some prescriptions for my cousins (her son and daughter) for their skin. My 15 year old male cousin has acne and my 11 year old female cousin has exzema.
While in the pharmacy my Aunty said to me something along the lines of, “Your parents are really lucky, both you and your brother don’t have skin problems. I’ve had to spend so much on skin treatments for my children.”
Wow. You really have NO IDEA. I may not have skin problems. But I have mental health problems. Which means money spent on psychiatrists, psychologists, GPs, possibly medication. You have no clue. How much money that costs. How much GUILT it brings me. How stressed I get thinking about my parents paying for all of that and how SELFISH it makes me feel. My dad’s told me so to, ‘We spend all this money on you seeing a psychologist and psychiatrist and (possibly) medication…’ Like I wasn’t already feeling so bad about it without my father putting it in words for me. And I start thinking that maybe it would be easier for my parents if I weren’t here, they wouldn’t have to waste money on me trying to get better when there’s a chance that nothing could come out of this money spent. My Aunty saying that made me so frustrated. She’s the lucky one actually, lucky that you don’t have a child with mental health problems to deal with. I’m just glad she didn’t make that comment in front of my parents.
Then in the car she talks about how it’s good my parents don’t have to worry about my grades and didn’t have to worry about me making the right decision on what to study in Uni. Oh wonderful, I actually just failed at least two of my units in my first semester of Pharmacy. She then talked about her son who’s in Year 11 this year. She said that last year she was concerned about his grades and had to push him to study but this year he’s working really hard and so that makes her really proud of him and it doesn’t matter how he did in his exams because she knows that he tried his best.
As stupid as this sounds, it made me hurt because I never hear my parents say that they’re proud of me. Getting A grades in high school, getting a TER of 90.15, getting into Pharmacy…nope. Never mind proud, my father didn’t even acknowlege that I got a TER of 90.15 and didn’t say anything when I got the news that I got into Pharmacy. Mum’s response to my happiness at being accepted, ‘You were going to get in anyway with a TER of 90.15.’
And last year with the affirmation letter parents were supposed to write us on Year 12 Retreat, I was hoping that maybe just once, with my parents given this opportunity, they would write me something. All I can say is, thank goodness for friends. Funny how the people who tend to get the nice letters are the ones whose parents tell them that they love them, they’re proud of them etc. anyway.
Then for some reason my Aunty decides to tell me, ‘If you have problems you know that your grandparents, aunty and me all care about you.’