I’ve had many complicated relationships in my life, but she takes the cake. My mother is possibly the most spoiled, self-indulging, excuse-hoarding, bitch I have ever met–but she gave birth to me, so I can’t neglect the fact that she also gave me life, fed me, burped me, cleaned my ass and made me a song about my first menstrual period that I remember till this moment.
She is beautiful with green eyes and brown full hair, touseled grey at the roots. The fine lines around her eyes and mouth are the purest signs she has aged from smoking nearly two packs of cigarettes daily since circa 13 years old. She is petite but round in her belly from her sedentary life style. She can barely hear you at normal volume because her eardrums are sclerotic from excessive noise pollution during her 4 hour job as a school aid, listening to kid’s screaming voices bouncing off cafeteria linoleum. However, if you whisper within her earshot, somehow she ”knows” you were speaking about her.
She must have some kind of personality disorder. Borderline or Bipolar or Beyond Fucking Normal (ICD-10, I’m sure.)
My father met her at 15, married her at 18 and they had me at 21. She has never paid her own bills. She has never needed to balance a checkbook or be the bread winner. When I was a child, she was a great companion–we’d spend hours playing video games or swimming in the pool or watching TV. There was never any pressure on that she must cook or clean or have chores completed. Sure, she did them. But she did her duties irregularly and with minimal enthusiasm.
My father never gave her shit. Due to this benign neglect, she’s developed this overdramatized way of responding to things. Her ear hurts? She’s moaning on the couch, blood pressure cuff in hand, swearing she’s having a stroke. She’s tired? You can forage for your own dinner, damn it. (But make sure you get her something.) On a budget? Don’t care. Buy the $13 pack of cigarettes–while you’re at it, pick up the fucking carton. Have something to say about it? She’ll scream bloody murder at you.
Her tantrums are monumental: door slamming, cabinet crashing, repetitive stalking down the hallway after a new comeback is cultivated. Any hour of the day or night is appropriate for level 100 yelling if she is inclined. These flip-outs can be induced simply by making a casual remark, i.e. “I am going to go fishing tomorrow.”
Responses range from “How fucking dare you?” to “I want a picture to prove you’re there.” 12 hours later, after she has cooled down…“Hey. Miss you. Dinner?” My poor father. I’m putting his name in the hat for canonization.
I love her. I do. I promise. But I don’t know how much I can tolerate of her. I hate this behavior in which she will go off the hip with an argument and go from 0 to 100 in 0.2 seconds flat. There is no such thing as a “disagreement.” It’s either you agree with her or you almost brawl with her. She is a dirty fighter–she is vulgar and will demean you and throw any insult at you to get a jab in. There is no below the belt—there just isn’t a belt, in her opinion.
So, she is allowed to insult and harass and belittle. She defuses in a day or two, will call or text and act like nothing ever happened. It’s bizarre. There are no apologies for the things said. No explanations for the absolutely inappropriate reaction to minimal things. And you are expected to be “respectful”.
We hadn’t spoken in 2 weeks since our last confrontation. She doesn’t seem to process that I am a grown woman, married and ready to start a family soon. I am no longer under her jurisdiction. If she thinks she can treat me like I am a child, she is sorely mistaken.
Today, she apologized for calling me a name. I had successfully radio-silenced her for 2 weeks. She was probably going nuts from loneliness. And ultimately, it’s her own fault. I don’t want an apology. I want an acknowledgment that there will be an effort on her part to change.
And honestly, the menopause excuse can only last so long. Her personality has been like this a lot longer than her eggs drying up.
Thanks to her behavior, I notice now my own faults in communication with Joe. I see her attitude in myself when little things will become such big deals in my head. I have been exposed to her flavor of crazy for so long that you begin to subconsciously imitate it…I am, after all, her daughter. It frightens me. I find her mentally weak–incapable of developing a plan and sticking to it. She can’t make a decision without a counsel of relatives giving their opinions. It drives me nuts. Even something as simple as quitting smoking…she won’t do it because her daddy won’t. Despite the fact her mother has COPD and nearly dies every year from the Flu.
I also think this must be from her own upbringing. She was raised by her parents to cook and clean and be a good little housewife. She was told to never trust friends—“you only need family.” Therefore, she doesn’t have any. Only our inbred relatives that are just as equally (if not more) dysfunctional. One is a closet homosexual (be gay. but be HONEST.); One is agoraphobic and hasn’t seen daylight in months; One has problems with aggression. The blood line needs a bit of purification, if I do say so myself.
She grew up and live to this day next to her parents, sister and relatives in attached houses (like we would in Italy.) Therefore, her comings and goings are always known. If she strains to have a bowel movement, the rest of our family knows about it. And she loves this. She thinks this community is where she finds her strength. And I think it’s her Achilles’ heel. She can never move on, move out, move forward because she’s stuck.
Life is so short....it’s so fragile. I see sick people every day; they would give anything to have more time. I hate not speaking to her…life is too short for stupid grudges. But she doesn’t see her life is nowhere near as fulfilling as it should be, could be. She won’t cut the umbilical cord. She won’t grow up. You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it drink. God, I wish I could shove this horse’s face in the water. She needs to drink something other than her family’s Kool Aid.
It’s a shame because if she doesn’t start committing her time to my family (my dad, sister and myself), she is going to lose us. And she doesn’t see it. I guess people never do.
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