Yesterday, we did a real high alpine tour over the little Bösenstein (2395m) to the big Hengst. 1000m elevation gain, and boy, did it feel like that! A very beautiful tour: the landscape and view were incredible.
This, these 10 days, are very hard for us, especially for Mum and Emily. They don’t like Styria, they don’t like this dark, cramped house, that there’s no WIFI and that we’re stuck in the rainy mountains instead of chilling at the beach in Spain or France. I can understand all of that very well, but somehow it leaves me indifferent: I put up with it and try to make the best out of it.
Mum suffers most from not having a say, not having any value attached to her needs and not being asked. Like I said before: Grandpa’s wishes have to be fulfilled or he’ll look out of the window or into a map in a huff. That became very clear to me yesterday: we had just passed a nerve-wracking, dangerous and tiring bit. The view was great and we wanted to have a break. At several points we suggested to rest, but no, Grandpa insisted stubbornly that we’d go “just to this next mountain-ridge” and “just this little bit.” He didn’t even listen; his decision was already made.
This next part was far less exhausting and dangerous, but I was too tired. I couldn’t concentrate and enjoy the view of the turquoise tarn, just like Mum and Alma. I got so mad, felt Mum’s anger of not being heard and respected and taken seriously, not counting and being passed over.
I was so furious, I imagined how I’d step up to him and say that we would decide from now on, that we we’re mad and he didn’t have a right to be mad at us and that he didn’t have to get his way all of the time. I was ready to shout all of that into his face. Then I realized: I could never say all of that to him. We’re dependent on him. He paid for this vacation and the car and parts of the house and my bike and so much more, he supported us when Mum didn’t have a job, he invested in Mum’s firm and he might fund my studies. Shortly: He’s got the money. And he gives it to us. We have to be thankful. We’re dependent. This realization made me even angrier, but in an unsatisfactory way: I couldn’t blame anybody. He means well, he has the money, and we take it.
I was throwing rocks down the mountain, thinking of saying to my mother: “I never want to be dependent on a man!”
Later, when I was back down to earth and had recognized that I couldn’t change anything, I felt guilty that I was in a bad mood and could’ve brought everybody down. Now, in hindsight (and, actually, even at that moment) I knew that that was a typical female complex: a mechanism to please everybody, soothe your anger and not be the “hysterical killjoy”. On the other hand, Grandpa gets worked up about everything and spreads a bad mood, unloading his anger on everybody—especially women, especially Grandma—without the slightest guilt.
Well, now I have a writer’s cramp, guess I’ll have to go to bed now.