I Hate Myself for Loving You

Have you heard the old Joan Jett song, “I Hate Myself for Loving You?”

Here are the lyrics. (I’m not sure how copyright works here, but Joan rocked the hell out of this song in the 80s, and I had absolutely nothing to do with it!)

Midnight, gettin' uptight. Where are you?
You said you'd meet me, now it's quarter to two
I know I'm hangin' but I'm still wantin' you.

Hey, Jack, It's a fact they're talkin' in town.
I turn my back and you're messin' around.
I'm not really jealous, don't like lookin' like a clown.
I think of you ev'ry night and day.
You took my heart, then you took my pride away.

I hate myself for loving you .
Can't break free from the things that you do.
I wanna walk but I run back to you, that's why
I hate myself for loving you.

Daylight, spent the night without you.
But I've been dreamin' 'bout the lovin' you do.
I won't be as angry 'bout the hell you put me through.
Hey, man, bet you can treat me right.
You just don't know what you was missin' last night.
I wanna see your face and say forget it just from spite.

I hate myself for loving you .
Can't break free from the things that you do.
I wanna walk but I run back to you, that's why
I hate myself for loving you.
I hate myself for loving you.
Can't break free from the things that you do.
I wanna walk but I run back to you, that's why.

I hate myself for loving you ....

Anyway, I learned something about myself tonight—I don’t live up to my own expectations. It both pissed me off and made me cry. Well, I cry angry or sad, so I guess the tears were irrelevant.

The narrative: Dawn was supposed to be staying with us until June 1 when she moves into the apartment that Hubby and I paid the deposit on. She’s been home two nights since moving her belongings onto my carport and into my living room. She was supposed to be home Sunday from babysitting, and go job hunting with Hubby on Monday. I texted her five times Sunday, as plans for the week sort of hinged on her being around. (Why I have yet to learn this lesson, I don’t know.)

Today, we were supposed to be having a family dinner-- all six daughters, grilled food, fresh veggies, fun times, right? Wrong-O! She has decided to stay with the man she’s babysitting for because he’ll let Dumbass Boyfriend live there too. And DB does not want to spend time with us because it makes him uncomfortable because he knows we don’t like him. (And with his resume, who wouldn’t adore him, right?)

The pork chops are coming off the grill when Dawn texts me that they’ll be at my house in five minutes to get more of her clothes and her phone charger. I ask if she’s staying for dinner, and she says no, she already ate. Now I’m mad.

They arrive as we’re sitting down to eat, and DB stays in the car, Dawn comes in to get her charger. She hugs everyone, and makes some fast small talk, and then Marie dares to ask her what the plan is. Dawn bites Marie’s head off when Marie asked her about how long she’s planning to stay where she is, and how she’s going to job hunt while stuck babysitting for $100 a week. She stomped out and slammed the door.

Now I’m pissed. You don’t want to be my kid? Fine. You don’t want to eat my food? Thanks. More for me. You want to come in MY house, during MY dinner, yell at someone who WANTS to be my kid, and slam the door we’ve repaired ad infinitum thanks to your slamming, and expect me to be okay with it? Um, no.

So I drop my plate and go outside all prepared to let her have it, and


nothing. All I can manage is a half-hearted “Really?”

She responded, “Yeah mom. Really. I’m tired of everybody pissing me off.”

She got in the borrowed car and off they went.

Why is it that I can unleash my unholy Mediterranean temper on measly crap like chores being half-assed, or someone leaving icky stuff on the bathroom floor, or students who are rude in the hall, but when someone’s behavior REALLY desperately deserves to have my inner Sicilian come out, I don’t?

Dawn deserved to hear what I was thinking and feeling and it would have felt A.M.A.Z.I.N.G. to let it out at the top of my very capable leftover-cheerleader lungs. But I didn’t. I watched her drive away.

I expect and demand emotional honesty from my children. From my students. From my husband. I don’t let them hide behind excuses and past life experiences. So why is it that when I find myself in the heat of a moment, that I am incapable of the very thing I value and push so hard?

Is it wimpiness? Fear? Performance anxiety? Base hypocrisy?

Whatever it is, it’s driving me batshit tonight. Or maybe it’s this other issue distracting me, with another daughter.

If stress shortens your lifespan, I think I might be scheduled for next week.