Little conspiracy theories in one's own family: 911 Inside job, but uglier and more realistic.

[Cornellius]

All kidding aside, I had a sort of creepy revelation tonight, upon examination, about the probability that my parents have pulled despicable utilitarian deeds on me in the past.

 

The first time I think I uncovered a conspiracy within my family was when I realized that my father had stolen extremely valuable things from me with no intent of using them. Two small, easy to hide and easy to lose pieces of technology that had become part of my everyday life. Not many years ago, at his house where his second girlfriend and my sister also live, the wi-fi internet dongle I recently bought for my 360, worth 50 dollars, disappears. It has simply left the back panel of the console where it's been consistently clenched for a long time and is never found, and as I search for it for days, nobody seems to find a valid explanation, but notices I'm playing a lot less Xbox by now since I can't log in to Xbox Live. I end up burying the experience in my subconscious. Things just... disappear.

 

Months later, we're living in the same place, but my father's girlfriend moved out in tears, and my iPod Touch has disappeared. Over time, I end up purchasing a second one. Weeks pass, and one day, my father is holding my first iPod Touch in his hand. Here's the story: His girlfriend, who happens to live at the other side of town, was taking a walk nearby and found my iPod lying on the sidewalk, recognizing it mine, and passed it to him. I again buried the experience in my subconscious. The laws of physics and reality don't apply to iPods or real estate.

 

At 18, as my relationship with my mother was nearing its assertive destructive climax as I was becoming more mature, she was becoming more desperate to retain control over me.

 

October 14th 2012 in the night, I'm sitting on the couch in the basement and my mother's upstairs doing her business in the kitchen. Out of nowhere, my digestive system is sending me a faint, nearly invisible signal: nausea. I'm afraid. I look back at what I ate earlier. I had dinner with my mother. No ingredient in there was put into question, although I wasn't there the whole time during cooking. She has no symptoms. I've had an iced cappuccino over three hours earlier at a mainstream café, which solid residue is probably far down my intestines. Several minutes later, as if in a self-fulfilling prophecy, I'm vomiting a constant stream of matter into a large 2L bowl. I nearly fill the 2L bowl with vomit. My mother piles on the are you okay's and the sympathetic poor you's and I tell her to shut up as I almost ran out of air since the vomiting action was so relentless, and she's treating me like an infant. She grabs the bowl filled almost to the brim and rushes up the stairs to empty and clean it as I'm weeping. Minutes pass in her company and I fill half the bowl again with fresh vomit. I spend an all-nighter alternating between resting and loud, stifled and screaming vomiting and my mother cycles in and out of her bed, coming back again and again with the same pity. Every time I'm about to vomit I'm slightly panicking. I need my mother because I'm existentially terrified of death, and I know I could be dead if it happened to me in the wild but at the same time I'm hateful of her attitude. I go through the night vomiting about eight more times, with increasing strenght smaller amounts of liquids and solids. The sun gets up, and she comes back with some supplies to help me regain vitamins, hydration and calories. My digestive system is still infested. And every once in a while my throat is squeezing out tiny quantities of water, in other words I'm puking almost nothing at a time. Are my bowels literally EMPTYING THEMSELVES?!?! I'm still really scared because I'm under the impression that if I'm going puke out anything I put into my system and die of a lack of nutrition. I'm becoming light-headed. Eventually, I gradually manage to get some soup in and some Gatorade from the pharmacy and walk away uninjured. My mother comes home from work at noon to check on me and things are improving. The next day I'm fine.

 

So, following the line of reasoning "everyone poops", I recently just wondered whether Vangelis has ever thrown up in his adult life and what that would look like. But then, I looked back at the past year or so I've been on my own in my apartment, complete with several interactions with friends and family in the first few months, and realized haven't gotten even nauseous once, and I'm not even that much into washing my hands after going to the bathroom. Even my apartment isn't extremely tidy, and I've had several risqué experiences with food, for example eating 1+ week old fridge bacon, searing my first rare steaks in one minute, ordering poutine every week from a relatively dirty joint across the street, using butter and frozen berries that have been lying around soft in the heat, all versus my mother's tidy habits, through two wintertimes. I've learned that getting sick is almost impossible for anyone who takes even reasonable care of themselves in a normal situation. The answer is, Vangelis has never thrown up in his adult life.

 

And I believe my mother poisoned my food on October the 14th.

 

p.s.: I can't figure out if it's only my father who stole my ipod and my wifi dongle. Also, I feel totally sick and depressed after writing that.