I dream a lot. Most nights actually. I talk and shout and roll around in my sleep and wake up anyone who is near enough. But most of the time I don't remember any of it.
Sometimes, though, I do. And those are always the best dreams. They start when I'm not quite awake enough to realise I'm asleep, but awake enough to remember them. Then I wake up properly, but because I always wake up gradually and the dream is so nice I just go back to sleep. Except I can't properly, I'm still mostly awake, so I can control the dream. When I finally wake up and start to do all the boring daytime things, the dream keeps me all muffled and fuzzy and happy. Of course, my little bubble is soon broken by some stupid person or another, but the dream lingers in the back of my mind so I don't get angry at them.
I didn't have a dream like that last night, but I did wake up very happy this morning. It wasn't too early or too late, and my computer was full of charge for me to use. When I went downstairs for breakfast I was greeted by my mother cooking, and therefore in a good mood, and Easter Chocolate. I returned upstairs and enjoyed a random creative streak before spending about an hour talking to some new friends over the internet, and generally getting to know them better. Then my mum called me down to lay the table. That's when things began to go wrong.
She successfully managed to annoy me to the point of screaming my frustration in under five minutes, a new record for her, before telling me off for being annoyed. How did she manage this feat? By telling me to do about sixteen things at once. I've been getting mad at her for doing that since I was five. Then, she began to criticise me on how I'd been doing those things. Luckily we got the table set before I blew, and I was allowed back upstairs for the next half hour while lunch was finished. This allowed me to cool off a bit, and I got changed out of my pyjamas and into some clothes.
I then returned downstairs and had a surprisingly pleasant lunch, and my previous anger seemed like a mere hiccup in the day. However, it was not to last. We began to clear up, and me and my sister had a small argument because we're sisters and that's what we do. There were no raised voices, just snipes and some violently phrased disagreement. This lasted about five minutes before my mum cut in. She was outraged. How dare we have a small argument! We haven't even been told off for not enjoying ourselves and being bad company when we went out to dinner last night! I shouted right back at her about half my points when she cut me off. She was in turn cut off by my sister, and I was forgotten. Again. Never mind that I was also being a bit grumpy last night, my sister is the misbehaving child, and the one with the loudest voice, so she deserves to get to have her argument. Never mind what I have to say on the matter, I'm the good girl who just lets everything roll off her back.
Except I'm not. I was upset. I was angry. I was a little bit confused, and generally overwhelmed. I ran away. In my shorts and tank top with no shoes, phone or keys. No-one noticed when I stepped outside. I was gone for about an hour. I always intended to come back. When I walked down the road leading to mine, my mum was there in the car. She was furious.
"Where have you been?! Get in this car now!"
Not worried about why I ran away for an hour in my bare feet. Not at all bothered about the fact that all the evidence suggests it was because of her fight. Just. Plain. Angry.
My mum's boyfriend was also out looking for me, but on foot. He was also quite close to my home. This suggested to me that they hadn't been looking long. I had been gone for an hour.
I went and hid in my room and refused to come out until my sister's baptism that evening. Walking to the church, my mum fell behind, because she's a fat, unfit, unhealthy person, and her boyfriend (who is very nice and kind to me and my sister) put and arm around me. He said that they were worried when I ran away, but that he understood why I did it, as it wasn't very pleasant to see my family argue. He also said that my mum loves me, and that all that matters really. I outwardly agreed, but inside I denied it. Sure, my mum may love me, but that's not all that matters. How she treats me matters. How she handles me matters. How she reacts to my more extreme reactions matters. Everything matters. And now I think I hate my mum. And I don't love her underneath that.
My sister I do love though, even when I'm fighting with her, even when I hate her. The service was boring and, to me pointless, but I enjoyed the songs, because the other people's faith was shown so clearly. Mine was shattered a while ago, but my older sister's has somehow remained intact. And she sealed it today. She accepted her religion with the words 'I do' repeated a few times, to a few questions I can't remember, and the the words 'Jesus is Lord' I believe is what she said next to another unremembered question. Then she was dunked, and then she dried off and said hello to all the people there that she knows, and then she spent the evening hanging out with her friends in our garden. They had all come along to support her, even though not all of them shared her faith. I don't, but I went and sat in a church for two hours without complaint. So did my dad and my aunt, although she is a Christian of a different kind.
My mum didn't. She came alright, but not after much umming and ahhing and 'I really just don't do churches' and 'I think Ian is having a party on that day so I might not be able to come.' If she doesn't quite approve of what me and my sister are doing, she can be an unsupportive bitch. But it's okay, because I was supportive instead, and then I got to hang with my sis and her friends who I know most of anyway. And it was fun.
