Donkey! or Borg Baby

It seems that I have some time to sit here and examine the subtle nuances of my psyche...but why would I want to do that? I suppose that I've finally become disgusted with all of the little monsters living inside of me - fear, anger, jealousy - and not all are directed at the object of last evening's little expedition inside my head. Well, I should say, all are most definitely directed that way, but not only at that selfsame object. I don't like giving attitude to the people who (I think) care about me the most. It's just that when I try to be nice I feel like the overly gratuitous distant relative or so-called friend who has overstayed her welcome but isn't quite ready to leave yet.

"And in the morning, I'm makin' waffles."
Honestly. Ten months ago I moved into a house much smaller than I'm accustomed to, but at least I had my own bedroom, a haven to which I could run for a certain amount of privacy. I made that room my own, with posters on the wall and the eventual addition of my multimedia - games, a television, and a generously donated VCR. It wasn't paradise, to be sure, but it was mine.
Then comes the news that crashed my little parade. Forget rain, this was a torrential downpour. "We're moving your brother in." Moving him in where?! Mind you, this is a three-bedroom house, with three people already living in it. I don't need a college degree to add that up and figure out that somebody's getting the boot. And, hey hey, guess who the lucky outsider is? That's right - me. So I had to pull down all of my pictures. I had to unplug everything and put nine-tenths of my earthly belongings in storage three miles away so that there would be room for my little brother and all of his possessions. Now everything is cramped into one small bedroom which my mother had already occupied. Ever seen Batman Forever? Yeah, that bedroom could easily belong to Two-Face.
A new development - after discovering that it is impossible for me to sleep in the same bed as my mother (and who really could?), I'm allowed to pull out mattresses into the living room and make my bed on them. Of course, every morning they must be folded and redeposited in my mother's room. This morning the drill sergeant isn't here, though, so I'm enjoying a little freedom and taking my time. They're right there, and I have no intention of moving them yet.
Of course, this all introduces a myriad of emotions into my already overloaded shell. The overloading is nobody's fault but my own, let me make that plain now. Still, alternate thoughts of feeling unwelcome and wishing I could leave just permeate everything I do. And yet there's no freedom. I think that's my biggest problem. I'm eighteen years old and more dependent on my mother than when I was eight. That isn't my choice and I do everything I can to cut the metaphorical cord, but she is no help whatsoever. One minute it's "you're moving no matter what" and "go pack your s*** now" and the next it's "I'm begging you, please don't leave." Yes, I know she's had it tough, but not once has she stopped to consider what the last year has done to me. I am in hell.
So I write here, and I wait and work so that maybe things could be different. Nothing works. In my whole life I have never actually considered the prospect of hating my mother, but in the last few months that thought has come closer and closer to the surface. And of course it isn't true, not in the long run or in the deepest parts of my soul, but from day-to-day interaction it's worse and worse. I run to Brian for comfort, Brian and his family. I need somebody who I can tell the awful things to and have them not judge me but support me, somebody who I know isn't going to turn around and blab to my mom.
Like Grandma. I tried that avenue, thought that maybe if I confided in her she would be understanding and maybe try to help me out. Ha. I never thought my grammy to be duplicitous, but I've discovered that she talks out of both sides of her mouth as effectively as any politician. She makes me think she supports me, then runs to my mom and complains about what an awful person I am. And this is the legacy I am to inherit? No thank you, I may as well take chances with the other side of the family.
What a lovely bitchfest I'm having right now. I just have to get this all off my chest before I explode. I hate having to come in here everyday and be all smiles and pretend that sure, everything's just peachy even though I don't feel like I belong in this family, in this house, in this moment. The second I walk in the door I'm looking for a way to walk out again, or at least to lose myself in a phone conversation or sleep so that maybe, just maybe, I can get away. Escape is impossible, resistance futile. I've been born into the Borg - and I want out.