Ever since I was old enough to remember, my relationship with my mother has been problematic. For most of my life, it seemed as though my Dad was raising three kids: me, my brother and her. She and her four siblings were taken from their mother when she was twelve for reasons of neglect, after their father died, and raised in the Children’s Home.
These were hard times, as they were very poor. Regardless, they all grew up to have successful lives and families. I, however, chose not to have kids, primarily due to allergies, but also because of this. If you’ve known me more than fifteen minutes, you realize something is wrong with me, emotionally.
Unencumbered with these concerns, I’ve enjoyed a gloriously happy life and still do. I’ve done a lot of cool things and hope to continue. However, due to my mother’s behavior, I was never encouraged to pursue my love and talent for writing, lest I spill the beans about her.
She is in a rest home and my brother gets regular reports about her. She has chosen to ignore his children and so they have no relationship – a condition I support.
Mother’s Day was a normal thing for us, until we entered elementary school and she chose to cuckold my father, whom I adored. He also adored her and suffered horribly at her expense until succumbing to a heart attack at the age of 52. His death hit me like a ton of bricks and took me about ten years to recover from. But I got married and we’ve had a good life since. Fortunately, I kept my old house and live in it, visiting her on weekends as we prepare to retire.
Therapy and reading lead me to understand that sociopaths are made and psychopaths are born. Mom is blameless for the circumstances she was born into, but at some point we must bear the cost of our behavior. I am glad that pop no longer suffers from his love for her, but I finally learned to stay away from toxic people.
She’d apparently built quite a playhouse for herself at the beach, after her boyfriend died, and we suspect the women had a camera placed in her home, to keep an eye on their husbands, because although nuts, she was a beautiful woman.
And that goes a long way toward explaining my problematic relationship with women. I trust none of them and have often found good reason. But because of my mom, I am psychologically incapable of being unfaithful, lest harm be done to others.
I still run across people in the grocery store whom I’ve known all my life and tell me horrible things mom said about dad and did to him. I like to think he got time off for good behavior.
During the bargaining stage of grief, I made a deal with God to see my dad again, someday. Even now, I regularly feel his presence in my life. I have no desire to see mom, as my presence causes a psychotic episode where I am elevated to the hero of every story.
It took decades before I learned from Dostoevsky that we tend to demonize those we’ve harmed, which explains the vitriol coming from our mom. Of course, by now the Brunswick County law enforcement and mental health professionals know the score. Thankfully, we live four hours away.
I am happy for those of you who are able to enjoy and remember your mothers. It just so happens that is not the case for us. Most of all, I regret the sense of neglect her grandchildren feel, for which they are blameless.