"Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn."

It started off with my father shouting and me feeling guilty. He told me I was wrong for being inconsiderate about his feelings. He told me I was irresponsible. He told me I took him for granted, always expecting him to be available to come with me wherever I wanted to go, but never returning the favour. He said I never respected his privacy, walking into his room whenever I wanted, taking whatever I wanted, but still having the audacity to slam the door in anger if he ever dared to walk into mine unannounced. 


He told me I wasn't allowed to talk on the phone at night and I didn't, for I realised there was probably some meaning behind his many, many words. I respected the fact that he was so many years older than me, and that that had to hold for something, and there was no use denying it. I used to defend his innumerable, immeasurable lectures to my sister, who being much older had already reached that stage of mental independence and rebellion I now find myself in. 


I used to be able to justify his regular temper outbursts saying that he had reached an age where he deserved nothing but respect and understanding. I understood that I was meant to look past the way he was saying things, for it was sometimes oppressively unpleasant, and look instead at what he was saying, and try and gain something from it. I used to feel ashamed when he accused me of lying. I used to care when he said he thought I was a disappointment. My conscience used to creep up on me, you know? Well, I used to know. Used to.


Then, something happened.


I can't seem to put my finger on what it was, and I think that's because it wasn't the result of just one incident. It was a revelation, a building of opinions and a downward spiral of attitude.

Now it's like, "Oh Jesus, they're talking again. Mom's waving her arms again. Dad's giving me the 'I am disappointed in you' look. Sigh. Let's get some pizza, yes?"


They talk and talk and talk and I don't feel the need to listen. Alright, I may listen, for I am physically capable of doing that, but there is no emotional or mental effort on any level, to absorb what is being said.


I have a feeling I know who to blame for this paradigm shift in my level of giving a rat's ass.


Contrary to popular belief, it's not me. It's my sister.


See, my sister and I never used to talk much. Then, I started dating someone, and that changed, because now we had something to hide from the common enemy: our parents. They could not know about my boyfriend. God, I made the mistake of once mentioning to them that  this male friend of mine had become my best friend (though he was indeed my boyfriend) and they went completely berzerk; they brought his name up at every possible opportunity to prove how I'm wasting my life, and how they know nothing about my life (well, they were right about this one), and how I spent hours on the phone yapping at unimaginable speeds (this had to be pure assumption, because even thought it was true, they had no way of knowing that unless they skipped work and stalked me the whole day) about things that had no meaning or value of any sort. I think my parents are the kind who are going to assume I am going to remain a virgin till my wedding night. So, basically, there was no way in living daylight that I was going to tell them. 


My sister and I started talking about how we could avoid my parents from getting to know about him. This obviously involved very grueling planning and coordination. Not to mentioned innumerable instances of humour and mockery. So, we bonded.


One thing led to another and before you knew it, we were talking about everything- my friends, my school work, stuff on television, music, boys, my boy at the time, her friends' names, our parents and their oppression, how to deal with the pressure, her work life etc etc. We got on pretty well.


Don't think this means we're all hunky dory. We still fight. Mean, mean fights. Both of us can be pretty ruthless in our verbal tactics. We can break a rock. And against each other, it's hell on earth, it is. Before, people used to try and convince me the fighting we suffered was normal, but since it was the only communication my sister and I ever used to have, I couldn't help but disagree. Now, since it's part of so much more, it's tolerable.


Anyhow, the reason I brought her up, is because I have a sneaky feeling it's her influence that has made me so thick skinned when it comes to my parents, and rules in general. I no longer feel any concern or regard for my parents' ramblings. Somewhere, I guess I've just accepted that whatever I do, they will have a problem with it. And this theory has been proven right over and over again. Further, I think I've told myself that at the end of the day, they're parents like any other, so they should expect me to care just as much as other kids do, and not as much as I have my whole life, which has always seemed to be a bit more than normal. 


I probably sound so heartless.
But believe me when I say this.
Every moment that I laugh with them, every time my dad says he's proud of me, every time they give me a compliment (sparingly so; their excuse is that they don't want it to go to my head), it swells me with happiness.


But that doesn't happen very often. And most of the time, it's just torture, and lectures- which are rapidly becoming synonymous. And I can't help but turn a blind eye, and a deaf ear. It's inhuman to expect me survive if I let myself get affected every single time they try and tell me some other way of doing something.


So, I'm sorry that I'm such a problem, and I'm sorry I've disappointed you so much by being a pleasant, smart, funny, creative, caring, modest, humble daughter who turned bad merely because of circumstances and now find myself incapable of caring, but, "Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn."