Fun and games, chilluns!
If I had known what fun it was going to be having a mother, I might have reached up from the womb, grabbed her windpipe, and strangled us both. As it was, I was all set to have a promising career as a serial ax murderer, but I fell in with a bad crowd in the ’60s, smoked a lot of dope, and mellowed out. C’est la vie.
No, she’s not dead yet, although she says that’s all my four siblings and I want for her. Today she said that she didn’t understand what had happened to the five of us, all turned evil you might say, and it hasn’t occurred to her that with those odds, the shoe just might be on the other foot. It’s a classic case of paranoia, in which power of attorney equals “you all just want to steal my money.” I don’t know how to win an argument like that, and I’m not about to try. She’s going to go down with the ship and take as many passengers with her as she can, so it’s a good idea to swim as far and fast as you can before the wreck slips beneath the waves.
Now, if anyone is tired of reading about this, they can just leave and come back later. I have to put these words to web page to clear my soul, turn shit into gold, so I’m writing for myself, you might say. (Welcome to my therapy.) The most difficult thing for me is that hardly anyone understands, because of the cultural taboo about saying such things about one’s mother. That, and the fact that it’s so hard to believe in the first place. But the woman who panicked the other day because she couldn’t get the cap off a Metamucil bottle is riding high on the adrenalin of revenge, vowing to “never” allow any of us to take care of her. It’s truly fearsome to behold when this occurs: the babbling stops, the voice deepens and steadies, and the measured syllables of doom roll off the tongue like 10-pound blocks of ice dropping down on baby bunny rabbits in the clover.
Of course, this also means I’m off the hook, huzzah! Except that I can’t help but be affected by the disintegration happening before my eyes, because compassion for one’s biological mother is wired in — or is it that I still want some juice from the other direction? Heh. Always another layer, always, always…
In any case and for whatever reason, an incident from my last year or two of high school (the date is murky) floated to the surface earlier, so here you go:
I was alone in the kitchen with my mother in Massapequa, New York. There was no one else at home. I may have been washing dishes. For whatever reason — probably my “mouthing off” — she suddenly flew into a hysterical rage, grabbing handfuls of silverware and flinging them at me. Sixteen or 17 years old, dodging flying knives, forks, and spoons as she emptied the drawer… I retreated downstairs to my bedroom and shut the door. A few minutes later I heard angry footsteps on the stairs, and the door crashed open: she had an open empty suitcase in her hands and threw that at me, screaming and cursing at me to pack up and get out of the house. I don’t remember what I did next, but I’m sure I left the premises, probably to take the dog for a long walk along those dark suburban streets.
Ah, the memories. And if you think this is bad, you were never a 10-year-old boy, sitting up nights huddled in the little bunkbed with my brother and my sister, listening to our parents yelling and smashing things in the living room. These days it’s that same brother substituting for the old man, as the two of them go at it in the leaky, beat-up singlewide in Tucson where her car got stolen the other night. She says she’s going to arrange for her own home health care now, so I’ve had to cut my brother off, poor devil.
The fuse burns shorter, but it burns.
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{ 7 comments… read them below or add one }
This is were we near agreement. The folks were always nuts. Mom always won the prize there, thriving on conflict and despair as she does.
Therefore, Mom’s present state isn’t “all that” out of character. Your mileage may vary.
Good to hear from you, bro’, and an excellent point about the mileage. We each were affected in different ways because of different times, different dynamics. I always thought some pieces got filled in better for you because of Lilly, our grandmotherly German maid in Gauting. You were just a year old during the time I mentioned in the post, but I can’t remember if you shared the room with the three of us or if you had a crib in the folks’ bedroom.
And no, her present state isn’t out of character at all. The meanness, I mean. The thriving on conflict and despair, etc. What IS different is that the rest of her faculties are shattering. The only thing that works is the nasty stuff! I also don’t remember that we ALL were ever on the chopping block like she feels now, but that’s certainly the case.
Another thing that’s different now is me. I finally know how to do the alchemy.
Your poor brother. You managed to break free somewhat and survived, now he who stayed to help is facing the same wrath. Didn’t matter what you did or didn’t do, her insanity is the same for all. Let her go. She won’t be able to control a paid health care giver the same way that she controlled her children, so I hope she has good luck with that. Tell your brother to change his phone number so she can’t reach out and touch him anymore. Then, when you get the call that she died and wasn’t found for several days, you can go clean out the trailer and go home with a clean conscience. None of you have anything to feel guilty about. You did your best and it almost sucked the life out of you.
Peace.
John, I hope you can purge any crumb of guilt you feel about hating her, “because compassion for one’s biological mother is wired in.” Bearing children is strictly biological. Being a mother takes a lot more love for humanity than the woman who bore you obviously has. So feel free to hate the cruel b***h. Purge, John! Purge!
I hear you, but let us be clear: I don’t hate anyone! I’ll be posting a little addendum to the above quite shortly, which may illuminate the situation further.
Nice to have support, though! Thanks.
Sorry, John. It wasn’t my intention to accuse you of hatred — just want you to know I support your “rants.” Good therapy and all that. Carry on!
I know.
No problem. Figure of speech, etc. And my “Not Rants!” post has nothing to do with you or anyone, really. I just wanted to make a certain point.