The Paper Towel Incident, as I have called it in my thoughts.
It was in December of 2008. Winter break, during my sophomore year of college. (Note: There's a chance it may have been the year after. Even now, my memory of it grows foggy.)
Throughout college, I learned how absolutely wonderful it could feel to be free of my parents. Not once did I ever feel homesick. I often went months without visiting back home, and when I did, it was most often only to see Kevin or visit with Cara. I never went home specifically to see my parents. On the occasions I did go home, things rarely went well. A weekend could be spent without trouble, but anything longer than a couple days back in their house would turn into the usual cycle of fighting and depression.
The Incident occurred at a point when I was extremely tired of this. I didn't even really want to go home for winter break at all that year, but I went because Kevin was going to be there. I planned to stay a couple weeks and see how things go. I think it lasted one week.
From the get go, things were not going well. Every day was the usual string of teasing and nagging and put-downs that I always deal with. Then one day, when it was just my mom and me at home... Mrs. Dash peed on the floor.
My mom caught her doing it, and immediately went into pissed-off mode. She yelled at me to get some paper towels. From what I recall, I think I was doing something at the time, so it took me a few seconds to go for them, but I did. When I went for the paper towels in the kitchen, however, there was nothing but an empty cardboard roll.
Meanwhile, my mom has been yelling at me the whole time to hurry up and get the paper towels. When I tell her there are none, she yells, "WELL GET SOME MORE," in a tone that implies that I have to be retarded not to think of that on my own.
I, however, have not lived at home for the past two or three years. My parents have moved some things around during that time, and I have no idea where the paper towels are kept anymore. Foolishly, I go to look in the laundry room cupboards, where I last knew they were kept. Not finding them there, I tell my mom "I can't find any more."
My mom must have assumed that my stupidity is preventing me from solving her immediate problem, so she yells at me some more, as if that will fix it. She tries to tell me where the paper towels are, but - being her - cannot form a coherent sentence to tell me where to look. I ask her where they are, and she replies with what amounts to a rage-induced string of nonsensical words. Eventually she tells me they're in her bedroom closet, and I go get them.
The mess is cleaned up, but she's still furious with me because I didn't get the paper towels to her fast enough.
Fast forward to that evening.
I'm in my room. My dad comes in. I find out that my mom has been ranting about me and my utter "uselessness" to him. He starts to lecture me about how mom deserves to be treated with respect and that I don't do enough for her. That she works all day and I do nothing. About how we exist to keep her happy.
I am... dumbfounded, to say the least. Incredulous. I cannot seriously believe that my father is telling me that I'm useless and don't help out enough just because I couldn't hand my mom some paper towels fast enough. When I tried telling him what happened, and that I couldn't give her paper towels when I had no idea where they were, he wouldn't listen. Mom's opinion was the only one that mattered.
And maybe this whole thing sounds petty... and maybe it is. But what I can't describe was the feeling I had, right then. The epiphany. The realization that that moment, right there, was an illustration of my entire relationship with my parents. My entire life.
I was the useless one. I tried my best, but it would not be good enough. It would never be good enough. My mom would always be "right." My father would continue to back her up, no matter what I said. No matter how loud I scream, my opinion would never be heard. What I thought and felt did not matter. It would never matter.
And that is, ultimately, when I died a little inside.
I couldn't stand my parents any longer. The next day, I packed up my stuff and left to go back to my apartment in Orlando, without caring to tell them I was leaving. My mom caught me packing my stuff up in the car, and asked what I was doing. I told her I couldn't stay anymore. That I just couldn't do "this" anymore. I was visibly upset, and wanted to be anywhere but home.
Did it ever make a difference in how my parents treated me?
Not at all. They're too blind to their own faults. They always will be.
And that is why our relationship is hopeless.