My mom is a recovering alcoholic, is stable on mood altering medication, taking less pills, and has quit smoking. I'm so proud of her. These are things she has done my whole life and the resentment for such has run deep.
Wait, rewind, and delete the words 'recovering', 'stable', and 'less'. Also, replace the words 'has quit' with 'is still', and insert the word 'not' in front of 'so proud'. (Let me just say that I'm sure everybody has their own story, and I know my mom has not had a perfect life and at some point anti-depressants were indicated... But not when you are on more than two or three when a doc only prescribed one?)
My dad has saved my life in more than one way. But it is to the point where I resent him now, too. No matter what pills my mom is on, she's always right, and I'm always way out of line. But that's a different story. One I'm still trying to come to terms with. One that I won't be able to come to terms with for the foreseeable future. I mean, the man was my hero, but when I need him most, time after time, all I get is kicked in the balls and told that my mother killing herself is none of my concern.
I've always followed blindly, so okay. I'll run with that. Go ahead Mom, take those anti-depressants with that jack and coke, hold the coke. See ya around!
Long story short: I moved out a bit early. Mother and I would get into fights, real fights. Approximately seven minutes and thirty-two seconds after said fight, I would get a call from my father, explaining why I had to go and apologize to Mother because I was such an unruly beast and how he couldn't believe he had raised such a disrespectful little spoiled brat. The man had me so wrapped around which ever finger suited him at the time that he convinced me to move back in because "Mom is so hurt. She thinks it is her fault you moved out." How the fuck did he pull that one off?? Of course it was her fault! But, I moved back anyway. For a whole day too! Then she came home from the bar at 2am, woke me from a dead sleep, and started screaming at me.
Even my wedding wasn't mine. I'm antisocial, and I have the people skills to prove it. What the hell made my folks think that I wanted a 400 guest wedding? I don't know, but I got it. Sure, it was great seeing friends and family, and everybody wishing us well on our future life together, blah, blah, blah... But Jesus, had I been required to hug one more person from my parents high school that I had never met before I was going to loose it. I did loose it, actually. I was so sick with anxiety that I didn't eat all day - those poor photographers, my patience was so thin! I'm pretty sure my maid of honor wasn't the only one who snapped, "Don't touch me again!"...
But it was what Mommy-Dearest wanted...
Very few people know about this, but with all that happened I was pretty screwed up. Really screwed up. I don't drink, because controlling myself is the only thing I have. I don't voluntarily lose control (it happened once, and I've yet to forgive myself). I was so screwed up that I only lashed out when I was asleep. I would wake up to holes in the wall and bloody knuckles. The bottoms of my feet would be cut and bloody because in my sleep I would take a knife to them. I would scream. I would sleep with my eyes open. I would stop breathing... And I wouldn't remember it. All I know is that I would wake up, terrified and bloody, I'm pretty sure I socked my husband a few times. I dealt with that alone from the time I can remember, to about two years after Mike and I started dating.
He was my first real kiss (awww, so cute). I avoided falling asleep around him because I was scared of what would happen for over a year. Eventually though, things got better, slowly but surely, with time, I stopped having so many night terrors, and when I did have them, they weren't nearly as bad. Mike saved my life, plain and simple.
To illustrate the dichotomy of Mother though, she was livid that I didn't sleep around when I had the chance (had being the operative word there, she has pointed out more than once in the last nine months that my body isn't what it used to be). She kept saying when I was 16 and 17 that I should play the field, and not be afraid to make 'connections' when I went on a trip... Right... How awesome is a mom like that?! She told me to sleep my way to the top! Screw my way onto TV for playing with sharks in South Africa where AIDS is rampant! SWEET!
And so the controlling continued. And continued. And continued.
When the fuck am I supposed to grow my own pair of balls and tell them to suck it? When does being fed up with the bull shit out-weigh the concern for family? I'll tell you when: With a donut. Or so my mom thinks. She's no longer allowed to babysit my son because of a donut, she's convinced.
So I don't ramble, here are the highlights:
1) My mom watched my son three or four days a week.
2) My mom felt that sour candy, donuts, and bacon was an acceptable diet for a baby. I didn't.
3) "If I don't pack it for him, please don't feed it to him" somehow got misconstrued into, "If you gave him x, y, z, I just assumed I could give him (insert completely nutritiously empty and disgustingly bad for you food here)" which inevitably turned into my love of drama spread over her facebook wall, and my controlling personality and it's inability to let her feed my son crap.
In the last 24 hours I have gotten over a dozen emails asking why I'm so mad, where my son is being cared for, and why I haven't gotten enough drama. I don't think she understands when I say, "I'm done explaining myself and having my words taken out of context, then used as fodder for your facebook rampages about my love of drama".
I defriended my own mom from facebook. That should tell you something. If somebody defriends you, you know it's irreparable. Kind of like, if it's not on facebook, it didn't happen. Yea, according to my friend list, she's not on facebook. Please God, tell me she didn't happen (in the sense of as far back as I can remember resenting my mom for who she is, and who she pretends to be).
So what is the real trigger to growing a pair and telling somebody they need to clean up or clear out? Having a kid. That's right, a kid. You've heard that you're not supposed to poke mamma-bear, right? Let me tell you how true that is!
Most people blame their child for their lack of life and independence. I blame my child for giving me my own life and independence. I owe him, and by association, Mike, everything. Absolutely everything. Since that kid tried to kill me at birth he has become my world. And damn skippy, if you try to mess with my world hell WILL rain down on you with a vengeance best compared to ancient Greek Gods. If it weren't for that ingrained, inarguable instinct to protect your offspring with every fiber of your being I would still be firmly placed under my dad's thumb, and my mom's ass, wondering when too much was too much, and when I could officially say I'd been hurt enough to not care enough to try and change it anymore.
Facebook said it best; "There comes a time in your life, when you walk away from all the drama and people who create it. You surround yourself with people who make you laugh. Forget the bad, and focus on the good. Love the people who treat you right, pray for the ones who don't. Life is too short to be anything but happy. Falling down is a part of life, getting back up is living."
Thank you, Callen, Mike, and the family who knows. Thank you, for letting me live.
The last couple of blogs explained me in the proverbial nut-shell. Now, I shall go forth with my jaded and completely inappropriate sense of humor (interrupted by rants, I'm sure)! But damn, that feels good to let out...