My mom drives me crazy because she is the original, extreme version of myself. She’s me, if I give up trying to fix the things that annoy me about myself. Not so good for someone with the levels of self-loathing I tend to maintain (which are still, of course, less than my mother’s).

I don’t feel like being more specific, because–as usual–now that she’s gone back home I’m feeling very emotional about the visit and very protective of her. But it makes sense. I told GB a couple days ago–when she was driving me completely insane, and I was starting to feel like there was a low-volume, high-pitched scream in my head all the time, and I was wondering if I was actually becoming mentally ill–that it’s really no wonder she drives me nuts. She’s not just an anxious person with low self-esteem who hates herself and loathes her body, for instance; she’s the person who taught me to be those things, too, and, along with my dad, is one of the primary voices I have to shut down in my head just to be able to function.

And that sucks, because she rocks in so many ways, I can’t even tell you. Do you realize that we are almost completely packed? And that–as much as there’s all this crap in my head from her, I’ve also just spent the past six days hearing about how totally awesome I am, all the time? Which is nice, I have to admit.

But you know, I’m feeling completely ready for that sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll binge to start now.

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