Is this normal?

Just to warn you, this is going to be grosser than usual

So yesterday we (my roommate, my parents, and I) were at my grandparents' house saying goodbye to them since we came back to Minnesota (my parents to visit/move stuff, us to stay,) and I had to use the bathroom before we left. So my mother comes in there and starts going on and on about how long I'm taking and THEN she starts like watching what I'm doing and how I'm wiping my ass...like...WHAT THE FUCK? And then she starts complaining about how I must be obsessive compulsive because I don't leave bits of shit around my anus and infers that if I'm not having anal sex it shouldn't matter if I have shit in my anus... WHAT THE FUCK?

And she made me get up because "it had to be flushed" halfway through my bathroom-use...at least this time she didn't insult my pubic hair.

So then she's yelling really loudly in the bathroom like, "ARE YOU STILL POOPING?" so the whole house can hear about it.

And she keeps patting me on the ass...which is getting really old, even though I keep telling her not to touch my ass.

And THEN we're at a rest stop and I come out of the stall and she starts making some huge ass deal about me taking a while in the bathroom so I ignore her and she gets all sad and is like, "you walked right past me," *pathetic voice* and then gets really stupid about it so I feel guilty and I go back and then she starts making comments about it.

So THEN like...we're at the apartment later and I'm using the bathroom and she's like "can I come in and talk to you?"

Like WHAT THE FUCK is my mom's issue with me using the fucking bathroom? I'm getting really tired of it and she's raising shit (no pun intended) over every stupid little thing and just getting all ridiculous about nothing and I just ugh I don't want to be around her anymore it's just...I mean being an insufferable bitch is one thing but barging into the bathroom (it didn't have a lock on the door when she came in so don't tell me I should've locked it) and smacking my ass that's a problem.

Privacy means in space that is yours.

I'm just wondering if it makes me a jerk that I think people sharing a bathroom should masturbate in their own bedrooms? Masturbation is lovely but that's a bit too personal. Aside from the cleanliness issue there's my weird issues with sexuality and the "what are you doing in there/tmi" thing. I feel like a jerk for sort of pushing that point today because I feel like I should be "cooler" than that but I'm just not. Supposedly it's understood and it's fine but I still feel like a cock-blocking on-leading lesbian tease/whore.

I can't help thinking of all the girls with sugar-doused souls who would be cooler with this stuff than I am. I mean it's working out, but I just can't help thinking that any given one of them would be "better" than me for not having issues with things.

WHY is it that I manage to be writing such fucked up sexual stories yet I can't even DEAL WITH THINGS in real life? It makes me crazy.

At least we're here. I made us mac and cheese for dinner (from a box but still) with a shit ton of butter and it turned out really frickin good. I haven't made it on a stove and actually used milk and butter in years so it was pretty awesome. As he said, just the right temperature to shovel it into your mouth without risk of burning. Even if it was something simple I sang some fragmented musical numbers while I was cooking and I looked like a frickin housewife, and then I served dinner from the pot. It was kind of cheesy how housewifey I looked.

The moving in part is taking forever. There are still boxes places and my desk/chest of drawers won't be here until next week so a lot of things have to stay in their boxes until things are okay.

We actually tested the acoustics of my vibrators earlier, basically turning one on and having him go into his room to see if he heard anything. He kept insisting he didn't but I was really self-conscious thinking "OH MY GOD HE HEARS IT OH EM GEE."

Speaking of vibrators, when my mom was cleaning out my chest of drawers she found the package for my first vibrator (the lawn mower) with the price sticker still on it. She started laughing and told my dad she found the case for my old dildo. I explained to her that it wasn't a dildo, it was a vibrator, but it's all the same to her. It's NOT THE SAME dangit. Usually dildos don't vibrate and if they do it's with a little bullet you stick in a little hole in the bottom that probably doesn't do jack shit. And usually dildos are bigger than this clitoris assailant that met its fate with leaky batteries that made it go off on its own in the bathroom a few times until it just completely croaked. My mom asked me where I got $13.95 for the thing...and I explained to her that uhm...first off I worked in high school a bit and second of all I was always being given money when I went out and nobody needed to know I bought a vibrator after we got our way-too-greasy fake Chinese food on the booths that squeaked.

Anyway yeah way too long of a story to explain a fairly simple event.

There is nothing more awkward than hospitality and nothing more guilt-tripping than feeling awkward about hospitality.

So I've been staying with my best friend and soon-to-be roommate since Saturday night. It was cool for a while but right now I kind of feel like a freeloading bum. This guy already pays for me every time we go out to eat because he's super rich and is like a Sim you used the money cheat on...but in addition to that he lent me this huge chunk of money when I fucked up with the bank so I wouldn't have to call my borderline mother.

So, first of all this is obscenely awkward because at 20 it's weird to depend on someone else for everything. He gets me up and then I have to ask him about what's happening for food (that's staying with someone else for you,) and chances are we're hungry at different times and that's awkward, and if I need to go anyplace I have to ask him to drive me (because this city is not very walkable) and that's awkward, and I have nowhere to put the like three outfits I brought with me in this place so everything's a mess on his mom's sewing table and THAT'S awkward, and then his parents have asked us to help with some chores (fine) and they're paying me, a guest, to help with chores and as much as I appreciate it, they helped pay for my first rent and bought us cable and have paid for enough else that I feel like I should just wash the frickin windows for free and now I feel like a conniver and so THAT'S awkward. And then feeling awkward about insanely generous hospitality makes me feel like a douchebag, so that's awkward.

Also I think he's a bit more willing to take his time moving into the apartment because this is his house, meaning he can masturbate here. All of my toys are at the apartment we're moving into and even if they weren't I can't exactly masturbate here because first of all: rude sauce and second of all, I mean yes his family is probably rich enough to have flood insurance despite living in Minnesota but GEEZ. That would really be awkward.

I took a nap today at the apartment while waiting for the cable guy and I was so tempted to be like "NO NAP, COVERT SELF-STIMULATION" but I was seriously freaking tired. I woke up early to talk to another astral rape survivor (first one I've found who actually wants to talk) via phone, to prove to her that I'm real. It's weird knowing someone else has had that experience though I think she went through way worse than what I am, especially because I'm technically "free" at this point, knock on hospitably placed makeshift nightstand wood.

Oh and here's just a general list of things I'm stressing about right now.

1.) I seem to be here for an indefinite amount of time and I don't have an indefinitely patient system...I've been here close to a week plus the hospitality, I'd feel less rude and freeloading if we just went home not that I don't like his parents and brother and cats but sheesh I feel like a freeloader.

2.) I have to submit this mess of therapist bill to my insurance which probably won't pay for 90% of it because the bill is HUGE. I think I'll probably tell the douchebag "good things wait man..."

3.) I have to fire the douchebag and I hate firing douchebags because douchebags always fail to realize they're douchebags and rearrange reality to make ME feel like a douchebag...it's sort of like breaking up with my girlfriend who was also a douchebag I technically had to "fire" except I wasn't paying her to be a douchebag so it's kind of different.

4.) My parents are being themselves.

5.) I want to find a new frickin job.

I see you say you were brutally raped...now how does that make you feel?

So...the topic for the day is therapists. I hate therapists. I had my first encounter with one at the age of 10. She was the Christian type, said "uh huh" a lot and continually reminded me that no one was perfect except Jesus. It didn't bother me that she was Christian, it bothered me that all of my beliefs (ie: that dolls have some kind of life existence just because children believe they do) were symptoms of me being some kind of crazy, yet her religious beliefs were totally normal. I guess that goes back to the fact that it's not a delusion if it's shared. Then there was Dr. Old Douche I saw when I was 17. He was a bit of a behaviorist, with a lot of "Dr. it hurts when I do this," "durrp well then don't do that," style advice. He agreed with me when I told him no one would miss me if I died. Then there was the crazy old lady who ran an operation out of her basement and only accepted cash and checks because apparently dealing with credit cards is too "expensive" for a therapist to deal with.

After these experiences, I was pretty much done with therapy. Unfortunately for most people with depression, we're also addicted to the laced placebos they call antidepressants. And when you're addicted to antidepressants, you'll heavily consider suicide anytime you forget to take them. Because of this, I had to find a new pill doctor to give me something less useless than Zoloft...which ended up being the slightly less dangerous but equally useless Lexapro. He also kept pushing me to do therapy with the, "so how would you feel about therapy, you know I would really like us to do therapy, so I'll put you down for next week how's that okay see you then." I figured therapy was a good idea but sort of felt like I'd hurt the guy's feelings if I didn't give him a try. Fast forward a few weeks.

This guy looks like a gay leprechaun. He always wears pink, mint green, or white collared shirts with suspenders and he has red hair and a red beard. When I talk to him, he never takes notes like a normal psychiatrist: just nods and smirks a little. The last straw was the other day when I told him I was angry that my (astral) rapist was on facebook now. He said.

"Well it seems that the problem isn't what you might do with her, the problem is this conflict in yourself between this rape victim role where you get to be overpowered by passion that appeals to you and this kind of prudish virgin role."

I wanted to beat this guy up. Seriously...THE RAPE VICTIM ROLE DOES NOT APPEAL TO ME! Even if some kind of S&M-ish ideals appeal to me, as per Larissa, I know that the reality is not a romance novel where you get "overpowered by passion" that you can't be held accountable for. Reality is being used and fought and stolen from and thrown out and abandoned, most rapists don't even have the common decency to acknowledge you after or give you any validation that it even happened. When I say I was raped I don't mean I had a wet dream. I started to tell him that I can't deal with people who don't believe me and he smirked again and gave me the "time's up when are you paying me" line.

I want to fire this guy but he makes me feel so guilty for questioning him, like "he's the expert and I'm just the stupid patient." I hate that feeling and I just want to get out of this, but I still need meds. This really sucks.