Ugh.
I sent off an e-mail to my mother yesterday re-asking about my things and if she could ship them out to California for me. My e-mail read as follows:
Title: My stuff.
I'm just re-confirming the amount of the shipping. You gave me a figure of a little over $80 for everything except my paintings. I would like the total to ship everything, including the paintings, clothing, the bedding, shoes, books, and everything else that is mine that you have. If you could include the silver goblets and red candlestick holders that Grandori gave me, I'd be much obliged.
----------
And, then, her reply...
----------
I have had Matthew working for me. I think it would be best for you to send payment to him and ask him to ship you your things. He can pick them up and then you wouldn’t have to wait for a weekend when Dave has time to go to UPS and ship it all.
You also wouldn’t have to send emails to me or deal with me at all, which considering your opinion of me would probably be best for all parties.
It tore me apart to hear Dave relay the family’s reports of Eddie avoiding your phone calls. It made me sick inside to think that you were being misled. I told myself again and again to stay out of it, that you were an adult and needed to fight your own battles and learn your own painful lessons. For my concern, for my love and eventual involvement, I was told that you were ‘done with me’. And I hear those words repeated in my head each and every day since. Of all the difficult things I have put up with or heard from you, that was the worst.
Grandpa said, “You still have one daughter” and I just looked at him and shook my head. He can’t understand that it doesn’t matter how much I love Emily, or how much she loves me back. You just threw me away like I was a piece of trash, and that has hurt me so deeply I don’t even have words for it. You blamed me for the actions of a stupid, selfish teenage boy who chose HIS comfort and HIS love long before we interceded and asked for the truth.
I have always loved you Teigra. And I always will.
But like you said, you are ‘done with me’, as far as you are concerned you ‘have no family’. So just call Matthew when you need your stuff and he can make the necessary arrangements. Until your opinion changes, or you decide you do have a mother who has feelings and does give a damn about you, please do not contact me.
----------
By the time I finished reading that e-mail my heart was doing that pounding thing in my chest and all I was seeing was red.
A little explaining necessary?
My mother gave me this journal that she wrote in about me as well as a tin full of letters she wrote to me over the years (dating back to February 1988, 6 1/2 months before I was born). I have not read all of this journal or all of these letters, because every time I do I am absolutely disgusted by them. This is a seriously deluded, selfish woman. Almost every time she describes her feelings for me, it's always how much SHE NEEDS ME, how she wants me, how she couldn't live without me. She also admits, and often, that she's hard to get along with, that she's a "total bitch" (I'M QUOTING), but she never asks for forgiveness. It's almost like she's saying, "Yes, I'm very hard to get along with; I'm impatient, short tempered and generally nasty, but I'm your mother and I need you so deal with it."
What I get from this e-mail is that, yet again, my mother is blaming everyone but herself for what transpires in her life. Hell, I blame myself for a lot of bad things that have happened to me (and now that I'm going to therapy am working through a lot of that). My mother has no friends, no real family aside from the cautious love of her mother and father, and the only time she has anything else is when she knocks herself up and has the blissful love of a child for half a decade before they too realize the monster she truly is.
Alright, I'm ranting a bit at this point, and I apologize. I am trying to be patient and forgiving of this woman, but she drives me absolutely insane! I have decided not to talk to her... pretty much ever at this point... because every time I do it just causes me a great amount of physical and emotional pain.
She says in her e-mail that I "Threw her away like a piece of trash". Well, hell, she threw me out! How does she think that lead me to feel?
Now my mother denies that she threw me out, she says that "I left"--almost as though I had a few packed bags, a travelling cloak and a bonnet on, tearfully waving goodbye.
No, that's not how it happened.
I told her in a slightly heated argument that I hated the house that she had forced me to stay in, the one that I had been molested in. I told her that it drove me insane every night that I was in there, and I wanted nothing but to leave. She accused me of trying to guilt-trip her, that I was lying about not liking the house. I swelled, quite literally, with indignation, said in a low voice that I was sorry she did not believe me, because I was telling the truth. I left the room, went upstairs, got my art supplies together for a class later that night, and on my way out slammed the door.
Out she bursts after me, yelling, "If you want to slam doors then you can just get the hell out of this house! You can leave for all I care!" She was running and yelling and waving her arms a bit, much like she did when I was younger and she would hit me, or kick me, or pull my hair or slam my head into a counter. I freaked a bit. I threw my stuff into the car and got in as quickly as I could, closed and locked the doors. She came up and was standing six inches from my drivers side door, still yelling and pointing her finger. I rolled down the window an inch and screamed out at her, "You're a bitch! You're a filthy fucking whore!" I flipped her the bird, turned on the car, and quickly threw it into reverse as she grabbed a wooden planter (good two feet by one foot) full of dirt and rocks and started swinging it towards my car.
Later that evening, after the motor accident that I got myself into five minutes after that driveway incident (I could not see for the tears in my eyes), David came to see me at my friends work. He said, "You really screwed up this time, you can't come back." He asked for my house keys, told me I could keep the car, and said that my bank account, which was tied to theirs, would be shut down in the morning.
And later my mother has the audacity to say that "I left".
OK, yeah, I drove away, because I was afraid of physical injury, but what? I was supposed to apologize for something that I should not have to apologize about?
I don't hate her, I pity her. I pity that my mother will never change and has never changed. That she is so stuck in her world of self-delusion, that she believes she is right all the time, and that everyone else is wrong. Something that I've always wanted to tell her is that, when there's smoke, there's fire. She has no friends, no family that wants much to do with her, and every relationship she's had has gone down in flames. Her first-born (me) also wants nothing to do with her. I want to tell her; look around. If all those people, every one of us, does not want anything to do with you--do you really think it's us? Our faults, our problems? Have you ever wonder if it might be you? Because if you do--you're right.
I'm starting to write what I figure will me a over fifteen-page letter to my mother. It will be sent after my things are back to me, where she cannot harm them like she often does when she gets angry.
If I could get away with it, I would burn down that house she lives in. I would love to see that place that has caused me so much pain go down in so much fire and smoke and heat. I would love it. I would stand for hours and just watch it burn to the foundations. I wish I could, but I know I cannot. I know it's not the house that has caused me the pain, that it is just a symbol of my pain, and that burning it is not only illegal but... illegal. That is pretty much all that's stopping me.
*le sigh*
I need to go to the doctor and get on some stress meds. Every day my heart beats faster and faster, it feels like it'll burst from my ribs. My chest hurts more now then ever before. I simply cannot afford to go to the doctor right now. Maybe in a few weeks.
Ugh.
I sent my mother a reply to that e-mail. Just one sentence;
If you think that I told you not to be involved with me simply because of Eddie, then you are seriously more self-deluded then I thought.
It's sure to whet her appetite for the letter that is to come. For all the letters that she has sent me over the years, I will finally send her one, final one. It has been a work in progress these last three months in my own head, and now I'm finally committing it to paper.
I don't expect her to change. That would be a miracle, and I don't think I believe in miracles any more.
OK...
That's enough cynicism for today. I'm going to go attack my cat... with love and a squeaky ball toy.
Vous offrir au revoir et bonne nuit,
-Lady Teigra-
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment