My mother

Let me be well or let me be fucking insane because hell sucks.

Today’s definition of hell.  Hell is the most confusing, hypocritical mind-fuck that is my mental health state.  Fucking purgatory.  There is a conflict that exists in my mind.  Being aware of irrational thoughts.  I am an intelligent woman.  And although I am aware of the ridiculousness of what I hear myself thinking, I cannot stop believing maybe it’s not ridiculous.  I strive to be kind and compassionate to everyone, to be Christian.  I don’t like people who are manipulative.  And wow, do they manage to bring out a spiteful hate in me.  I am not your fucking victim.  And it offends me when people think they can use my head against me.  My tiny girl-brain.  I’m okay with the ignorant.  It’s malice that enrages me.  When someone makes a comment for the sole purpose to make someone else feel bad.  Why?  The only response is to not respond, sometimes impossible as you’ve hit a nerve.  I don’t want to belittle anyone, but I don’t feel like taking the high road as often as I used to.

“You didn’t even come to your Grandmother’s funeral.” (Driving by myself 600 miles across a northern interstate in the winter for a person with anxiety, and of course, at the time you said you’d understand if I couldn’t make it.)

“Your son thinks you don’t love him.”  (Total fabrication, discovered after I called him to talk about it.  And why wouldn’t I?  I never want them to question my love.  “No mom, we were visiting and they asked why you weren’t there for Christmas.  I told them we were disappointed cause we wanted to see you guys, but I know why.  I know my mommy loves me.”)

“God forbid she have hurt feelings for a little bit so her cousins can see her.” (She’s upset and I can help her fix what’s upsetting her with 5 minutes of tech-talk.  Then she can enjoy her visit.)

“You need to send your sister a card or something; she thinks you’re mad at her.”  (I’m not talking about this with you, phones ring both ways.)

“You never call us.”  (Again, phones ring both ways.)

“Why did you do this to me?”  (Really?  Well I guess I figured getting pregnant would be a perfect way to piss you off so I said what the hell.  I was running out the door when I turned 18, and you couldn’t understand why.)

I almost left.  I’ve never told anyone that in 23 years.  I wrote good-bye letters, farewell.  I didn’t leave, I knew I couldn’t make it on my own yet.  But I would’ve gone far away, Boston was my goal.  And I didn’t intend to contact them once I was gone.  Is it any wonder why I never asked you for a single thing after we moved out?  Will my punishment ever be complete?

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