Lana feels

Today was not a good day. It started out well - I slept in late, got up and, lo 'n behold, motivation existed. I put on clothes, got my bike out, and took Sierra for a bike ride. All was good, I had energy, it was a nice morning, I was up and feeling productive, and then Sierra had a heat stroke four blocks from our empty house. Several hours later we made it to the vet, who said she was probably okay but that they wanted to keep her for a while. I go home, Rani shows up. I put up with her until I could legitimately kick her out because we had to go pick Sierra up, and she put yet another dent in my spirits. We go back to the vet, who says that the collapse of the dog was perhaps a minor heat stroke but that it was aggravated by an infection in Sierra's bone marrow, or that's what they think because she has a very high white blood cell count. Or something like that. So we have to bring her back tomorrow. Then we get home, Mother's sitting in the driveway because "somebody" took the key off her car keyring. Of course, "somebody" is code for "Alana" in this house, but I didn't do it. I have my own key. It's also not my fault that she didn't check to make sure she had all her keys before she left, but trying to explain any of that to her was fairly futile. Then we had to have a family meeting about colleges and the schedule for this summer. Trying to get my mother and my father to have a civil discussion about anything, especially with both dogs in the room and when it's about me, is a lot like trying to get Arafat and Sharon to go skinnydipping in the Jordan River together. My head hurt by the time I was out of it, and since I had been forcing myself to be civil and smile and keep the peace the entire time in the hopes that perhaps we could do something productive, I was stressed and repressed and ready to scream. So I go upstairs, sit down, hope to be left alone. Cue the nightly yelling up to the third floor - "Alaaaaaaaaaana"-mother, from the foot of the stairs "what?"-me from behind the closed guest room door on the third floor "come out of there I can't hear you how do you expect me to talk to you through a closed door!?" "well you could come up here for once or not talk to me and leave me alone"-muttered irritably as I stride over to the door and open it "what? what are you saying up there? I'm just trying to talk to you, you don't have to be snippy about it!" "nothing. what did you want?" "*mother sighs irritably* I just wanted to be sure you would check on Sierra before you go to bed." "of course I will. *mutters* she's my dog, after all" "What did you say? You don't have to be so snippy, I'm just trying to help. If you don't want my help I'll..." I tune her out and go back to the guest room and shut the door. Two minutes later. "Allllllaaaaaaana"-my father from the bottom of the stairs "WHAT?!"-me, even further irritated, from behind the guest room door as I get up to open it "well you don't have to yell, I was just..." and it goes on and on. I don't want to be here. I have grown so much once away from all of this. I especially don't want to go on college trips with these people. I don't want to be, in his own words, "the most adult person" my father can talk to. I don't want to be his confidante, I want to be his daughter, but he only has two insults in the world for me. "You're just like your mother." and "You're (just/such/acting like) a little girl." I don't have any other role. This makes me want to pull my hair out and hurt someone. Grand old tradition says that if I hurt someone it will be myself. I need to go for another bike ride, because I'm not going to do that.