Since there are certain people that like to share everything I write on Facebook with certain members of my family who routinely, off and on, don’t speak to me throughout the years unless I have a condo they can move in, a lot they can sell, can babysit, or have anything of value to offer, I’ll be sure to post this so you can get back to sharing it to cause trouble.
(You know who you are. And you’ll be right back to talking about the same person the second your kids get in a fight.)
Anyway, in seventeen years this person has never, not once — and y’all know this is the damn truth — had the gall to cross me to my face. They talk about me the minute they get up the hill. They talk about me to everybody in the 37029. They make sure their kids act like they’re ashamed to be related to me or don’t talk to me on social media. But in 17 years, they have never had the balls to say one word to my face. Suddenly, they’re pregnant and they think they can talk to me like they’re crazy? I think we all know what that’s about….
Suddenly because you’re with child and Candi can’t kick that ass for you, you attempt to grow a pair that will magically disappear the minute you give birth.
* eye roll *
I don’t care about what you think about me. That “everybody in family thinks I’m so crazy I need to be locked up.”
That I “belong in a home.”
That you get asked every day “what’s wrong with Candi, why is she so crazy?” Which, ironically, is the same thing your husband said the last time he was drunk. So, way to recycle because you’re not even creative enough to come up with your own burn.
You get asked every few days why I’m so crazy. Well… I get asked every few days why YOUR husband married a woman who is such a childish, immature bitch with no personality or friends.
So, we’re even.
Also, let’s take a look at how you get asked all the time why somebody’s sister is so crazy. You really want to go with that? Maybe you’re confusing your husband’s sister with your own. I don’t pay my taxes, answer the phone for months at a time, or brush my hair. And I take anti-depressants and seek therapy. I didn’t give birth to kids and run off and leave them for crack.
This is not a conversation you want to have.
Of course I’m crazy. I come from a co-dependent family. I’ve been sober for 10 years and in the ten years I’ve been sober, I’ve learned this — I don’t have to tolerate somebody like you simply for the sake of being the “bigger person” anymore. I don’t have to turn the other cheek. I don’t have to play the adult so your kids will love me, you’re working to ensure they hate me anyway! I don’t have to be the more mature one while I get shunned. And I damn sure no longer have to tolerate stomping around in my grandmother’s living room in jeans that are too tight, an outfit you should have given away 20 pounds and 10 years ago, acting like you’re pissed at my existence and that I don’t have any right to be there.
I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve set there and been ignored and treated like it pisses you off that I even dared showed up or exist. Acting like you’ve done something with your life other than have one of your two biggest accomplishment be getting knocked up in high school. And I have taken it.
I’m not going to do that anymore.
I don’t care what you think of me. You’ve never, a day in your life, had anything that I want. You’re miserable. You’re sad. And the best thing I can say about you is that you spell right. Your real source of animosity is that you’ve built your life on having my last name, and you still can’t go anywhere without somebody saying, “Hey, how is Candi?” And it pisses you off. Because you know no matter what “What the hell is she wearing?” outfit you stomp around the ballfield in, no matter how much eyeliner you pile on, no matter how tight your jeans are — people still don’t like you as much as me. Because us “crazy” people are fun. And that’s your real problem. Otherwise, why have you given so much energy to hating and disliking me? If I’m so crazy and pitiful, what the f*ck does that make you? M-I-S-E-R-A-B–L-E.
It’s cute to paint your side of the story with a dramatic brush about how you get asked all the time about life having to be related to somebody like me. I get asked how come I didn’t knock your chubby ass out in the front yard years ago when you deserved it.
The answer is because I’m a bigger person than you. “Crazy” and all. Always have been. Always will be.
And you know that. That’s why you hate me. It’s also why you started hating me the strongest about the time I got sober, when you couldn’t get somebody else to stop drinking and you took it out on me. It’s called Al-Anon. And it works if you work it.
I acknowledge my crazy. I’ve seen a shrink. I read the books. I do the homework. While I’m busy finding viable solutions for my crazy, you’ll still be busy blaming everybody else for everything and acting like you’re perfect. And it’s why you exude misery.
Here’s a tip: everybody in my family may think “I’m a crazy bitch and belong in a home.” But why don’t you let me worry about my family and you worry about yours, huh? That’s right, you don’t really have any because you don’t speak to them either. And when you do, you produce family members nobody’s ever heard of. That’s some weird shit!
Here’s another tip: my family might think I’m crazy, they may think I belong in a home, but for the most part, they love me. They get pissed at me, we get mad at each other, we fight, I say shit nobody likes to hear and it pisses them off, but at the end of the day — they still love me, and they still don’t like you. Nobody likes you. You don’t even have a friend from childhood and I’m house sitting for my oldest friend this weekend. So, for “crazy” — I sure have a good time with it Your problem is you’re miserable, it’s not me.
Also, there’s this thing called gaslighting. It usually happens when people begin to speak the truth and abusers and emotionally unstable, powerless people don’t want to hear it. Classic gas lighting techniques include the words “you’re crazy” and “everybody knows.”
It’s cute that you think you’ll ever be strong enough to insult me and actually have it count. Bitch, please.
I’m sorry you hate me. That’s your deal. I’ll even allow you to tell me that I “belong in a home” and that I’m “going to die alone” — although the way I look at is, if that means I don’t have to come home to somebody like you every night, it’s a win, win for me.
I don’t care what you say about me. Never have, never will. What I care about is that over the almost last 20 years, I have put up with somebody stomping around in my grandmother’s living room, usually in too tight jeans and boots that look a hell of a lot better on Julia Roberts, and I’ve turned the other cheek. I’ve been the bigger person. I’ve let you act out your adult middle school games because you apparently didn’t have any girlfriends back then and you’re trying to make up for it, but here’s what I need to make clear: I’m not at the point in my life anymore where I’m going to tolerate any longer somebody that’s not a blood relative, stomping in my grandmother’s living room with your snotty ass juvenile attitude and acting like I don’t even even have a right to be there and/ or that it pisses you off that I’m alive and even exist.
Your constant shunning of me is some weird ass shit, as well. You want to talk about what “everybody talks about” — it’s what the f*ck is up with that. It’s a little Lifetime-movie, crazy jealous obsessed woman scary, truthfully. Perhaps you should spend less energy hating me and more worrying about why when you do finally find a friend, you can’t keep them for more than a year at a time and they always have to be overweight or unattractive because you are constitutionally incapable of liking someone that might be prettier than you.
The time — the days — for me to tolerate that is over. You may create your own alternative reality where I’ve never done anything for you, you’ve never needed anything from me, and I’ve never been nice or good to you — but that doesn’t make it the truth. The days for disrespecting Candi and Candi just playing nice, playing adult, and just taking it, is over.
So, now go enjoy a gallon of ice cream in front of reality show and text about me, and make sure your kids know to be embarrassed when they see me — or God forbid, act like they’re allowed to talk to me. It’s your favorite pastime.
And I’ll go back to actually enjoying this crazy life of mine where I die alone.
I’ll be glad to “say it to your face when you’re not pregnant,” but we know you’ll still be sitting in the car with the doors locked then.