For those who do not know, my mother is a legally undiagnosed (no paper trail) Manic Bipolar with Schizoerractic Tendencies. Unless you have been the child of an abusive and mentally ill parent, you have no idea how much suffering is involved.
I swear, I curse her, and just because she has the title of Mother does not mean she has ever acted like one. No one but me has any right to judge.
That said…
I am being completely honest when I say it would be a relief for my mother to die. Nobody would miss her. My father’s ball and chain would be gone, the money would stay in the bank account, and I could finally be free of her torture and ridicule. No more comments on how fucking HUGE I am, no more attacks on my opinions and my hopes/dreams, no dangling kind gestures in front of my face and then yanking them away, no more accusations of cruelty and attacks on personal issues, more telling me that it’s my fault the family is broken and that I should have never told the psychologist that I heard voices: “So do I but it’s okay, they come out of the radio and they’re in love, there’s nothing wrong with that! You’re going to make everyone think we’re fucked up! Our reputation is ruined!” And now every time I go home I have to listen to that damn radio: It is never turned off. She panics if it’s off. I turn it off and she runs (literally runs) to it and quickly snaps it back on, in terror. My mother is clinically insane. She needs her voices to love her, because she has replaced her daughter with them.
I want more than anything to have a loving parent. I would have been a great daughter. This year I’ve bought my parents oodles of stuff like I do ever year, hoping it’ll make things better, even though since I was six I get the same thing every year: Socks, and an orange. Or if I really want something, like a phone, I get a plastic fake phone that’s really a little girl’s makeup set, and my mother cracks up at my disappointment.
My parents treat the dog better than me. I was feeding myself at 10 because my mom wouldn’t let me eat (too fat). I was stealing clothes at 12 because I had nothing warm in winter, and all my clothes were threadbare (I’m growing, it’s impractical to buy me clothes). NOT ONCE did I tell this vicious cunt to FUCK HERSELF. Instead I wallowed in confusion, depression, and self-loathing. “I must have been a really bad little girl to deserve this treatment.” I hoped that she would change–or at least, ease off a little one day.
When I found out I had cancer, and because I was broke and they wouldn’t help me I couldn’t afford the surgery I needed, I finally called her up and told her FUCK YOU. I told her she is a fucking CUNT. I told her she needs medical help, because her brain is mush and she poisons everything around her. I told that when college is over next year, they will never hear from me again.
Mentally unstable mothers will never change. They became this way because they like hurting people, and they “can’t help themselves”. It’s unfortunate that they’re capable of reproducing.
Are you thinking about leaving your family behind too? Can’t take Mom’s insanity? It’s not your fault. It’s hers. And don’t let anyone tell you it’s not.
Measure what she’s done for you, and what she hasn’t. How much abuse have you taken, and how much more are you able to handle? Our society says that we must love our mothers. But that implies that all mothers are lovable. THEY ARE NOT. It is a crock of shit designed to keep families together for the sake of the bigger society. Like individuality, and how it’s actually a label and a tool designed to capture and contain everyone (because everyone thinks they’re individual.)
Take a long look. Weigh out the suffering with the happiness. Then, when you’re ready and have all your emotions and possessions gathered around you, cut out the diseased and dying flesh and run like hell.
That’s the best advice I have.
And personally, I can’t wait.
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