RE: Trailer Trash 50 pt I (Patreon)

/// Have really REALLY been dragging my feet on returning to this, haha. The wrong kind of emotionally exhausting to sink my head into, lately. I think I have one more section to insert right in there before Part G, because on read throughs it needs a break into Alan POV to really show how annoyed he was by Tabitha pulling extremely expensive gifts out of nowhere for the boys and feeling like the Macintire/Williams families are encroaching or intruding on the Moores and the way their family does things.

/// That needs to be there to set up for angry Alan in part G, and then--then I dunno, then I'm probably gonna figure out how to cut the finished Chapter 50 into Chapter 50 and Chapter 51, because it grew way too long and unwieldy, and then after some editing word to make sure both feel right, I can jump into Chapter 52, which will be a major tone change away from mopey family drama for a long, long time. I don't even know if I can write any more of that kind of vibe for a long time, haha. I'm spent on that particular trauma and eager to move on.

“Then—please, then do something,” Tabitha pleaded, fighting her way free of his embrace as tears began to overwhelm her all over again. “Then, start fucking helping me! I need, no, we need you to proactively work towards making each of these situations better. Not shrug and hope for the best. Not wait and see. Not tell me that everything’s gonna work out or be fine. Certainly not pointlessly fight me on the Lisa bullshit. This is it, dad. This is your wake up call—please, fucking wake up. This is the call to action, this is the hero’s call to action that you can not refuse to keep hearing.

“All of those years ago, my mother—Shannon Delain—called upon you to rescue her, and you did. Sort of. You could have done a better job, and yes, I AM the one that’s in a position to criticize. Listen to me, please. Wake up and do something, or you will lose this fucking family. We’re in serious trouble unless you can do something about it. I’m doing what I can, yeah, but every bit of your slack that I pick up will make me despise you, because every bit of that is a bit of trust that’s broken that can never be repaired—every bit of that erodes my perspective that um, my belief that you are the parent, that you can take care of things and handle this, that this all, that this—this—”

The rest of her sentence devolved into sobs, and Tabitha lost herself to hysterical tears. Her father stepped in again with a comforting embrace, and there was even a split-second of turmoil where she was torn between beating her fists against him or jerking back away from him. The moment passed with a mixture of relief and regret, and she simply hunched her shoulders and cried.

She’d let out the long rant that had been stifled up in her chest for these past weeks, all of those words had wormed free of her control and were spoken out loud. It wasn’t as cathartic a release as she hoped, and there was even a sense of loss to it all. Even more than the confusing tangle of family ties she had hoped to reinvent, past all the practiced arguments and seething condemnation Tabitha held for her father’s stubbornness, she was realizing she was not an adult anymore.

I’m just—NOT, Tabitha’s throat hitched and she let out another small wail as Mr. Moore held her. I’m not. I’m not. I’m really, really not.

The idea had been turned over in her mind before and examined from so many angles, but now she simply had to accept that she was not secretly a sixty-year-old woman. She wasn’t a wise woman in the guise of a pretty young thing. It had been a difficult thing to gauge when she could chalk up this or that to being emotionally stunted in her prior lifetime, or brush things off as misunderstandings or assumptions from her past life that were overturned.

But, no, Tabitha’s face scrunched up and the wet tears made a mess. No. When I think about it—when I REALLY stop and think about it. I have the maturity of a fourteen year old girl. My maturity, my reasoning, control over my emotions—these have all significantly regressed. Obviously.

Tabitha had to wonder if this was something like experiencing brain damage, and having to learn to live with reduced mental facilities. All while still remembering better times, when that had not been the case.

Each and every time, every argument, every confrontation here in this new life—I DRASTICALLY overestimated how competent I was going to be, how put together I was going to be through it all. I WAS mentally an adult back in my previous life, and I kept REMINDING MYSELF that I was STILL mentally an adult; when really, I’m just… NOT.

There had been so many different ways she had tried to interpret her bizarre circumstances, and most of the time she had leaned towards grown up software attempting to run its system now on teenage hardware. But, that only accounted for some of the conflicts. Really, when she searched back through the cognitive dissonance of everything that had happened in the past half year, the issues were stark.

The whole trying to use proper diction thing, Tabitha sniffled. How, how awful and CRINGE is that? And, it still happens! Even here in this ramble I just dropped on my dad it kind of was still happening! Like my language center has been scrambled up with adult memories. Then, there’s how shortsighted and single-minded my whole getting in shape plan was, how I just jumped right into that with tunnel vision and put everything else to the wayside. My weird obsessive compulsion with trying to have the magical makeover montage and impress and be the cool popular kid with friends—OF COURSE that was going to blow up in my face, looking back on it now. All of it, ALL OF IT screams to me that I had all along regressed to my body’s age with my mind and my emotions.

It could often seem like she was mature for her age. She knew that all children developed at different rates for an uncountable number of reasons and factors. The memories of that other future that played out did become an enormous obvious factor, she was certain of it. But, she was, right now, still a fourteen year old girl, and that was simply difficult to accept.

And, and BECAUSE I’m a fourteen year old girl, at any time in the coming months I’m sure to change my stance on ALL OF THAT, Tabitha tried to let out a bitter laugh, but it came out as an awkward hiccup.

I’m sure the next time a whole bunch of stuff happens, I’ll just convince myself that no, ACTUALLY maybe I am secretly an adult all along. ACTUALLY, I am savvy, and sensible, and have it all put together. And, I’ll just keep smugly thinking that, until THIS happens again and all of it falls apart and I have another breakdown, AGAIN.

I’m so, SO tired of feeling crazy like this. Feeling like, like such an absolute basket case. I don’t want to know how the future goes anymore. I’m tired of feeling guilty for when I have an unearned advantage, and then I also don’t want to feel responsible for fixing anything anymore. Fixing EVERYTHING. All of these stupid problems I don’t even want to be aware of. I’m honestly just—I’m just sick and tired of it all.

Tabitha allowed her father to meekly guide her back inside the apartment, and she washed her face and sat at the table with that familiar vacant, hollow feeling that lingered on each time she went through yet another transformative personal revelation. That these big personal realizations happened so frequently, yet had such little lasting impact on her, only seemed to confirm that she was definitely, absolutely, and unequivocally a stupid melodramatic teenage girl who constantly thought herself much more intelligent than she actually was.

Awkward conversation carried on between the real adults at the table without Tabitha’s attention or participation, with yet again even more uncomfortable topics about what was going on with the family avoided like they were the plague. She couldn’t even find it in herself to blame them. Cinnamon rolls were dispensed on plates, and the kitchen and living room became a flurry of activity as the boys each rushed out of their room, Gameboys clutched possessively in hand, to try to monopolize more of the rolls.

Tabitha burnt her lip on too-hot melting cinnamon roll icing, because obviously she would—she was just a stupid teenage girl, and of course that’s what would happen.

Mrs. Moore sat close to her and watched her carefully, kept her company throughout the rest of their Christmas gathering, even when Tabitha was in no mood to talk. Tabitha appreciated it, she resented it a little, she felt awkward and guilty and also felt like the two of them needed to talk. They were past due for some long conversations, about so many things, but each and every one of the topics seemed to dance tauntingly just out of reach when Tabitha grasped for them.

I think… I really think I preferred feeling nothing at all, Tabitha thought as she stared at her plate. Feeling dumb and childish is just… really unpleasant. But, I’m just a moody teenage girl, so it doesn’t even matter, right? In a matter of hours I’ll fall into some different mental state and be some completely different person. I should probably be on stabilizers, or something. I wonder if nineteen-ninety-eight has the right kind of medications to fix some of what’s wrong with me?

The rest of their Christmas brunch passed by her in a blur while she suppressed every emerging insight and new thought with a cruel round of second-guessing and self-deprecating mockery. Tabitha went through the motions of thanking her grandmother for everything, she gave awkward half-hugs and knelt down to accept a crashing pileup group hug from the boys that was a little embarrassing. Mrs. Macintire was called, and before she knew it she was bundling herself up again and collecting the Christmas presents that were hers—she barely remembered opening them, and scarcely had made time to think about them at all.

It would have been impossible for Tabitha to recognize her father’s silence, the deepening frown he now wore, or how unusually pensive the simple man was. She missed registering any of those things, and was out the door and trudging to Sandra’s Acura with her things before there was any chance to notice them.

/// Again, I'm taking one last stab at an Alan POV section for this, and then? MARINES, WE ARE LEAVING. Want to dive into High School Debut 2: Electric Boogaloo, where the worst offender bullies have been removed from the equation (or temporarily cowed) and Tabitha actually has a fledgling support network of friends this time.