A Lot For Which to Be Grateful

We returned from India on Saturday. I was back in the office by Tuesday. And yesterday was Thanksgiving, and I had a full house of company, friends and family.

The trip to India is always a difficult journey, but this time things seemed much smoother and idyllic. We attended a family wedding, and I really connected even more deeply with my mother-in-law, who is truly someone very very special. 

I was very organized for the holiday and the Maharajah is a great help-mate, so much so, he's like the other half of my brain, and we function like a solid unit. We had everything set up in the morning, and by the time I went to bed, I was one more load of dishes away from having everything completely cleaned up. When I woke up, I realized that M had broken down and put away our banquet table, and he quipped, "It's as if Thanksgiving never happened."

All in all, it's a worthwhile expenditure of energy and planning. Everyone involved truly looks forward to getting together, and catching up. And most importantly to me is that everyone is comfortable and accommodated. The true litmus test is to see my brother-in-law, who normally is a bit standoffish with my family (meaning, my birth family, mom's side in particular), and see him actively engaged in conversation and enjoying everyone's company--and likewise, they all look forward to seeing my sister, bil, and niece. 

I'm glad that it's been 16 months since my sister and I have reconciled, and so far, it looks like it's working. To my knowledge, my mother still doesn't know that we have reconciled. 

My brother continues to fail and flail along--and no, I don't include him in Thanksgiving. I exclude him, not out of cruelty; however, it's more a practical decision on several levels. He is entirely too big for the space, destructive, negative, and crude; and I am trying to distance myself from my past and carve out a new life and new experiences. I carefully curate who is included and what foods get served.

I have a lot to be grateful for: reasonably goodish health, a healthy husband, a roof over my head, food in my belly with enough happiness and food to share with loved ones, happy for the reconciliation with my sister, happy to have a broad range of experiences that take me to different hemispheres on this planet. 

My life is full.

We returned on Saturday from India and I held off on calling mom, because Thanksgiving was coming up and I didn't want to do 2 calls in one week. I held off on calling her in the morning yesterday as I didn't want her to taint my mood. I waited until everyone left and I called before it got too late. 

I keep the conversation on surface level stuff. I don't get too deep anymore, not that she ever DID deep before. And before I knew it, she was giving me the bum's rush to get off the phone. I don't give her drama. I don't talk to anyone who drums up drama. So she has no use for me.

Turns out no one visited her on the holiday, not even my brother who had nothing else going on. And while part of me felt sad about that, I quickly planted the thought in my head "it's her choice." It's her choice to remain at Shady Pines. It's her choice to continue to withdraw from people. It's her choice to be alone and lonely in a building full of other souls. It's her choice to do absolutely nothing about her depression and mindset. 

I'm thankful that I called her. Thankful to be reminded of what I DO NOT want for my own life. 

It's just a weird thing though, this "in-between" stage she is in. It's not like she's in a coma or on life support. She's fully functioning in many ways. But over the last 20-25 years, she's gradually given up on life--even more so after dad died. So it's weird seeing her become a ghost, yet still possess a human form--again, it's a choice. 

Life is short--we should live and eat and love and learn and and and... for as long as we are able. Use up every molecule of our being until there is nothing left. Not do what mom is doing, which is akin to taking abundance and just letting it sit and rot, and THAT, imho is not a life well-lived. 

October: Beginning & Ending

Where we left off in October—

After my last post, I spent the weekend at the Jersey Shore and very very glad that the thrust of my  visit was not focused on my mom, as I’d only be disappointed.

I swung by Shady Pines for a visit with Audrey. I itially there was a cascade of crocodile tears—all for show, and within 30 minutes it was as if she was hiving me the bum’s rush.

She sat there is a semi-stupor with dead eyes and no interest. She really has no room for complaint given: 1. It was her decision to go to Shady Pines, despite everyone’s input to go elsewhere; and 2. It was her decision to give up on living a life outside a nursing home. She has no fortitude and in the end isn’t independent, and I guess this works for her paradigm she has constructed, a life where everyone needs to go TO her without any expectation of it being reciprocated.

This is merely the end game of a process that has been on-going for the last 25 years, where mom has gradually, consistently, opted out of, well, putting herself OUT/OUT THERE at all.

I no sooner got outside to my car, when she started to call others to shred me behind my back, “You’ll never guess WHO cane to visit without calling first!” Given the fact that she has a designated shower day during the week, it isn’t like she could have freshened up before the visit, so I fail to see what the problem is. Guess what? There are residents at Shady Pines who have no one at all to visit them, who I feel confident would RELISH a visit, even from a stranger.

Later that weekend, I was visiting with a cousin, who inquired how my visit went. I laid out, honestly,  how it went and even detailed that it is a difficult thing to deal with someone with depression, and incapable of being happy. I also detailed how, at the age of 50, I am trying not to concern myself with watching my words or actions to make others feel more comfortable, when it is obvious through THEIR  words and actions, that they don’t care about MY comfort. (This point will be reiterated or re-experienced at the end of the month).

Towards the end of October, things took a turn at work. TBH, I didn't know if I was about to be fired or arrested.

Turns out the Fartiste reported me to my bosses after I made small talk with her. Now WHY yap to her in the first place? 

All my life i have been cultivated to try to make my tormentors more comfortable—in this case I worried she felt left out of the love fest between me and the younger secretary (who treats me like her mentor), so, in August, I engaged the Fartiste in idle chit chat, talking about something (I have come to find out) I shouldn't have, but in peripheral terms, nothing of substance. Mind you, the Fartiste handles the same type of proceedings in our office and a little bit of good will in the form of a heads up would have been lovely. 

SPOILER ALERT: She didn’t want to just get me to lose my job, but also my very freedom. 

So I got called into the director’s office, and her opening line was, “You DO realize it is a felony to disclose anything right?), so yeah, terrorized me right from the get-go. Fortunately, the discussion was more along the lines of an FYI type of thing to protect me; however, at the time, I was so utterly shocked, it caught me off balance and distracted me to the point where I didn't think to ask who reported me--despite the obvious choice.

My tipping point has been met. I’ve decided I need to change therapists, and see one who focuses on schema therapy.

So, I held my water (such as it is) until TODAY, and thought I'd finally be able to talk to my current therapist about this. Sadly, my current therapist is dealing with a gastroesophageal junction cancer diagnosis and started chemo right around the time shit went sideways for me at work, and despite my request to inform me via a text on my cell phone (as I wouldn't be in the office to retrieve my emails until AFTER our designated appointment time), he EMAILED me instead of texting me. So yeah, that fills me with MEH, the idea I rushed to get out of the house an hour earlier than normal to sit in my car and wait for a phone in session that was not to be. I'll blame it on chemo brain. He's got bigger issues than my bullshit with which to contend.

So my refrain from the beginning of the month is on the sidelines, showing me in living vivid color that this person is evil, and isn’t worth my time, courtesy or energy (to devote to merely THINKING of her).

I have been out of the office for two whole weeks, having spent an idyllic visit with my in-laws, and started to actually feel REFRESHED or somewhat RESTORED, and then I had to do something I dreaded: RETURN TO THE OFFICE TODAY. I was greeted enthusiastically by several people, one of whom I didn't anticipate (the #2 guy in our office); and the Fartise remained consistently nonplussed by my presence, and didn't utter a "hello" or "welcome back" or anything else of the sort.  

This all has been a huge wake up call--and I've had smaller ones too recently. After spending close to $8K to visit family in India, an uncle replied how we should visit more frequently (despite us visiting every two years). And my first response is to get ticked that we already ARE visiting them, and they want MORE. And the Maharajah's response is that I should look at things from another perspective--that these people love me and want to spend MORE time with me to love me some more.

I acknowledge that I am broken and I need help. And whether my current therapist gets back to me so we can have that discussion or not, I WILL get the help I need to do what I need to do to break out of this cycle.

More Telephone Twattery

Where I left off last month, after I told off my aunt, I blocked her on my cell phone, forming a communications choke point. If she wanted to contact me, she had to do so via email or my house phone.

It took a full month for her to figure this out.

I can only assume she attempted to send me a text on my birthday, of which I never received (for obvious reasons) and never replied to her.

I can only assume she attempted to send me her annual heart emoji on my dad's birthday (she has fetishized his birthdate and death date for the past ten years), and that too, went without an acknowledgement on my end.

And two weeks ago (as of tomorrow's date), she attempted to text me to let me know my Aunt B passed away, and that too went without acknowledgement.

She eventually emailed me, "I guess you've got me blocked on your cell, but I wanted to let you know that Aunt B died."

Okay, clearly she wants some kind of acknowledgement from my end--and I only acknowledged the death with a "Thanks for letting me know." In regards to her suspicions of blocking, I let sleeping dogs lie.

Then Audrey called me a couple days later to let me know, "I know your aunt got in touch with you, but I wanted to let you know myself, that Aunt B died."

And there goes Audrey AGAIN, weaponizing, this time, a death date, as an excuse to attempt more contact. It has been nearly a week since she called me, and I haven't been interested enough in giving her a call back.

This further irritates me, because both, Audrey and my aunt, BOTH, were not, shall we say, CHARITABLE with their opinions of my uncle's wife. BOTH of them acted jealous or resentful of him, even going so far as nicknaming him Tom Monzo (his wife's maiden name). 

Perhaps they were jealous of Aunt B, as she was a stay at home wife and mother until the day she died. She didn't have to work one single day outside of her home, unlike Audrey or my Audrey's sister. 

Perhaps they were resentful of Tom because 25 years ago he moved away, away from their abusive father and the whole family dynamic.

As an adult, looking upon this with eyes and opinions of my own, I don't think he ran away. I think he ran TOWARDS something. Aunt B's family clearly is tight knit and loving and decent--Tom would be a fool not to be attracted to that--as I am attracted to the same qualities in my own in-laws.

So, I've held off on the post-mortem discourse--wherein Audrey will act as if she is truly grieving over B's passing. To be honest, I didn't think either Audrey or my aunt actually LIKED her. To act otherwise is simply dishonest.

So, I texted my uncle. And at another point in time, he and I chatted. Aunt B passed on 9/19, and she was laid to rest this weekend. I sent him a card which should be arriving today. 

I hope the card and sentiments I sent, will bring him something resembling comfort. We all are just poor substitutes for the person he really needs, the person who would really understand and help him through this--Aunt. B.

The Fuckery Continues: 9 Months And No End In Sight

Nine months into this, and there's still not much to report. 

He's still not divorced, but from what I hear, he's being taken to the cleaners, and defibrillator or not, he has to take a second job in order to keep up with his alimony and child support payments. 

He's still half assing his way through paying bills, and well, time will only tell if he ends up getting evicted due to non payment of rent.

On another note, his house finally foreclosed, and he was too obstinate to listen to reason when it came to negotiating a price for "Cash for keys" as the new owners would like to take occupancy ASAP.

Meh.

And Audrey is still... AUDREY. Center of the universe itself. And was actively rude to my niece (her grand-daughter). My niece had her on speaker phone so my brother-in-law heard it all, and no doubt this will mean Audrey sees less and less of her grand-daughter.

Current writing, it's been a year since I bothered to go there. It's depressing, and she makes no attempt to not come off as pathetic and also underwhelmed by my presence--so why bother? Even her sister has backed off too, and is now making trips to see her every other month or so. Eventually no one will go visit her, and of course she'll blame everyone else except HERSELF for the state of things.

And if/when I do finally go there, I'll bring a sub sandwich, which she will devour even if she just finished eating lunch. The sub will be a distraction. And by the time she's done with that sub, I'll be out of there. And even so, she'd find some fault with the sub, to which I'd dispense a passive-aggressive "YOU'RE WELCOME" while sporting my bitchy resting face.

Nothing is ever good enough--so why bother, right?

And some NEW fuckery has been brought to light.

For the last year, I've sensed a weirdness, an alienation of sorts from my aunt (mom's sis). I had no idea what's going on, and of course, a characteristic of that side of the family is to be oblique and passive-aggressive.

Turns out, for the last year, she has told I DO NOT KNOW HOW MANY PEOPLE (besides my sister and my niece) that:

1. She has a spreadsheet of who gave what ($$$) to my cousin's wedding in July 2017;
2. She has me listed on that spreadsheet as giving $50--not the $150 in cash I tucked inside the wedding card; and
3. She has told others how I make time for my cousin David and not for my mother (or my aunt).

Mind you, this is not a one-off kind of scenario. 15+ years ago, my cousin KewpieDoll did some fuckery spreading lies to her mother, which then caused a rift, which tho repaired, the relationship was never the same after. My aunt even said she knows what a liar her daughter is. And, I am sad to say, I suspect KewpieDoll is at it again. 

So, I sat and marinated in that knowledge for a full week, and in a fit of an anxiety attack, I decided to text my aunt the following:

FYI:
1. I put $150 cash in KewpieDoll's wedding card;
2. I have not seen anyone--you or David--since Aunt Sandy's wake in October; and
3. I am 50. An adult. The frequency of my visits to my mother are none of your business.

The solitary reply I got back was:

"Message received."

I went one step further and said:

I will no longer be shamed nor manipulate by my mother or anyone. Whatever monster you or anyone else might think of me does not change my reality.

Of course, no further reply from her was forthcoming.

And since my birthday was coming up, I decided I to block my aunt on my phone, so as to avoid her using my birthday as an impetus for contact, to prevent my aunt from "weaponizing" my birthday.

So my birthday came and went and my sister asked if I heard from our aunt. And I said no, why? And apparently, my aunt was going to text me for my birthday. I said to my sister that I blocked her on my phone, that I refuse to allow her to raise my blood pressure any further, and if she wishes to communicate with me, she can do so via my email. 

My birthday was on the 19th. It's now 8 days later. No email has been forthcoming.

Between the innate passive-aggressive fuckery on that side of the family as well as what I will deem "Trump Derangement/Delusion Syndrome" that 99% of my extended family is participating in, it's really radically winnowed the familial herd. 

It takes more than a few strands of DNA to make a family. Family are people who WANT to be involved in your life. Family are people who care about YOU above and beyond politics or religion. DNA doesn't equate to love or understanding or even respect for that matter. 

Additionally, if my aunt has known all along what a manipulator my mother is and she didn't make it her business to intervene on behalf of me and my siblings for the countless indignities and abuses we suffered as children; then what I do or don't do NOW is none of her business as well.

FOUR

FOUR.

That is the exact number of telephone calls received between 8/18 and 8/22.

1. 8/18 Audrey called to wish me a happy birthday.
2. 8/18 Audrey called back to apologize--she thought the 18th was my day.
3. 8/19 Audrey called--and we SPOKE.
4. 8/22 Audrey called YET AGAIN, this time, to see if I  got the birthday card she sent. I neither picked up the call, nor did I call her back. Clearly, this was her weaponizing my birthday, all to get more attention out of me. Attention and energy (and give-a-fuck) I outright lack.

The card was another, non-descript, impersonal card, the kind you get in a bundle when you donate to AMVETS or St. Jude Hospital.

The card is bad enough--and then there's the inscription she put inside. I really feel a bunch of different emotions reading it:

1. Initially I feel like she's trying to appeal to my sentimentality--and is trying to manipulate me that way. 
2. Then there's the feeling like we are living in entirely different universes. "It was a journey we took together." AS IF I had any choice in this endeavor! Also, I find it interesting her use of "was" and not "IS." Neither of us is dead (yet), so it's an ON-GOING journey, isn't it?
3. Then the anger hits me. The anger in it taking her 50 years to attempt to appear thoughtful--what about all the years I actually needed love or validation? JUST LIKE HER FATHER, she has the ability, and she just turns it on and off, at will.

And knowing myself, I know when the time comes and she'll no longer be in the land of the living, I'll be even more pissed, as it took her fifty years for her to attempt something that resembles thoughtfulness--but I know the thoughtfulness is not its own end--but is a means to an end, in this case, weaponizing my birthday/birthday card, in order to achieve her END, which is more attention in the form of a telephone call. What about all the years I needed the unconditional love that a mother SHOULD provide? All the years she was emotionally unavailable to me? 

I cannot take even the simple act of a card at face value, I cannot let my guard down, because that's how she worms her way back in. I have her pidgeon-holed right now, in a designated space, safely at arm's distance away. And even the fact I am actively aware of doing this, it takes energy and headspace to be vigilant and protective of myself and my life.

I have spent roughly the last 18-19 years flying solo. No parental safety net--not that I had much of one to begin with. I have built a nice life, and I'm protective of it. This is perhaps the most stable time of my life.

Sure. She gave me life, but in many ways, she's tried to destroy it, too.

The Fuckery Continues: 7 Months & No End In Sight

Seven. That's how many months it has been since my brother's marriage imploded, and there seems to be no end to this shit show. His divorce hasn't been filed or finished. He's just in full on wallow mode.

When I think of my own personal divorce timeline, where was I at the 7 month mark? 10 Days after my marriage imploded, I got a PO box, I got a storage unit, and I I moved into my cousin's house for that transitional first year. By the 7th month, guess what? I was divorced and moving my life forward.

He's been living in mom's house since December, and hasn't managed to pay any of the utilities in that time, and pretty much he's been a huge hinderance to the sale of mom's house.

Two more months from now will be exactly one year since mom fell and fractured & dislocated her shoulder, and landed her in Shady Pines--she decided she wanted to stay permanently. I don't know what she tells other relatives, but I'm sure she plays it up as if we had her put away. Whatever. I have neither the time nor the energy nor the GIVE A FUCK to even entertain HER fuckery any further.

Anyway, we were hoping the house would have been sold in February, but our brother has been, shall we say, uncooperative in making himself available for building inspections and the like. He's also been severely lacking in appreciation and awareness of how truly special our sister's boss is. Sis' boss not only bought $6K of our brother's hoarded collectibles, but the boss is also planning on buying the house, and plan on renting it to our brother with the option for our brother to buy it.

All of that, of course, hinges on whether our brother is capable of writing a check and paying his bills in full and on time. It has become crystal clear to my sister and I, that this will not end well.

When I returned from vacation, sis zapped me this photo, and said, "The inspection for the certificate of occupancy was Friday."

To see this photo, it's pretty much heartbreaking for me. First and foremost, it is as if my father were resurrected from the dead. All of this junk was in the garage in October. Remember October, when I went there and helped sis prep the house for the estate sale, and was left to bust my ass to empty the garage because our brother went into the garage to "help himself" a la American Pickers-style, to whatever treasures lie beneath the detritus, and of course left the garage as-is? 

By the time I was done by midnight, there were roughly two dozen black "lawn and leaf" garbage bags loaded up and the garage was respectably clean for not just an estate sale, but for new owners to MOVE IN.

Bask in the chaos of that photo. Look at the breathtaking way our shit-head brother daisy-chained those extension cords and draped them up and over the garage door opener! 

"Sure, I have a fire extinguisher," he assured sis before the inspection. Of course, he had a fire extinguisher that expired in 1997--an extinguisher that no doubt dad bought. 

Bask in the outright lack of a clear path in and out of the garage. 

The mind reels. 

If the house doesn't sell soon, Shady Pines could presumably put a lien on the house, and then we can't see it until the debt at Shady Pines has been met. 

Sis is furious, and I am hoping she is furious to actually do something that needs doing, and I don't mean for him--I mean FOR HER. She needs to just STOP. 

She informed him that if her boss does go along with the sale of the house and then decides later his hoarding is a problem, our brother could be evicted. "Are you going to do what you can to make sure that doesn't happen?" His pathetic reply was, "Uh, I guess."

He basically went from living with mom and dad who paid the bills, to being married, and his wife paid the bills (or at least paid them up until about five years ago). He doesn't have an email address and doesn't know how to balance a check book or pay bills on line or any basic household management. He was a diesel mechanic for 18 years, and for the last 2-3 (perhaps a bit longer), he has been a foreman in his garage since due to his defibrillator, he can no longer work as a diesel mechanic--so it's not as if he doesn't know how to function. I mean, he's a MANAGER where he works, and he holds down a full time job and makes money.

There is no easy or obvious answer as to how or why he doesn't understand the concept of the necessity of paying your bills or else your electric or water gets cut off, or your car gets repossessed. You would think the fact HIS HOUSE went into foreclosure would have driven the point home: you pay your bills or you could become homeless.

My sister and I devoted each of our respective sessions with our therapist to this topic this week. Sis and brother both use the same therapist and sis provided the photo above to punctuate how bad the hoarding is, and sis said she didn't know what she should do about it. Her therapist said, "There is nothing for you to do."

Her therapist further went on to say that she believes hoarding comes out of borderline personality disorder and trauma, and possibly of sexual abuse. Sis then went on to remind me of this kid (who went to school with me) who mom babysat (along with his sister), and how this kid nearly got one of our brother's friends to fellate him. The boy's mother threatened to call the cops, and of course mom only ceased to babysit this kid due to peer pressure. My sister went on to remind me how ALL OF US were molested by this kid. Mercifully, I cannot remember it myself. I won't contradict sis, she's probably right. I just cannot remember it at this moment.**

We did the math this morning, and sis was about 11, which means our brother was 10. And that pretty much could be the reason why he's got this pre-pubescent fascination with pornography. Perhaps.

My conversation with my sister started on the phone, and hilariously enough I continued talking to her on speaker phone while I was in the shower and then brushing my teeth as I was getting ready for work--and then later, after I dropped the Maharajah at the train, and I picked up the conversation via text, and this is what I sent my sister:

Here is an image for you: you and I are each in a separate canoe, each paddling away from the past the we cannot control: mom, dad, our brother, everything negative and hurtful. 

I'm a bit further from you, paddling my canoe, and you're behind me, and behind you is the Titanic, up-ended, half sinking. Mom and our brother are The Titanic in this metaphor. They want to tether themselves to us in our canoes, and instead of keeping THEM afloat, it ends up sinking ALL OF US.

JUST KEEP PADDLING, KID!!

I then sent her this song (I hope it embeds properly):

<iframe width="560" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/MRge0RCBWSk" frameborder="0" allow="autoplay; encrypted-media" allowfullscreen></iframe>

So we're both angry and resentful of our parents for creating this monster, but who knows what the percentage of blame they should shoulder on this one. But still. It's there. And we are both nearing 50, and wondering when our own lives will begin, instead of being an extension of the fuckery that is our parents' (and now, brother's) dysfunction and abuse. 

RAGE? RIGHT ON TIME! 

Mother's Day is coming up this weekend. Great. My least favorite holiday. And every year for as long as I could remember (okay, perhaps it's closer to 35 years), I have anguished every fucking year, to try and find the least personal and most neutral Mother's Day card that conveys "I am sorry I shredded your vagina on the way out" and "thanks for not completely destroying my sense of self." 

This year, I finally figured it all out: when I finally find this year's card, I was going to buy several, so then I don't have to engage in this annual act of futility again--or that is what I dare to hope.

So why five? See, if I bought TEN, she'd die next year. And if I bought two, she'd die THREE years from now. I figured I'd split the difference and get five. And why are three of them identical? Well, there weren't five of those kitten cards available, and I had to make do with the other two cards.

I plan on staggering them, sending out the kitten card on top for this year, and alternate each year.  Neither is she a sentimental person who keeps cards, nor does she have the storage space for that. It'll just clutter up her room at Shady Pines. It's doubtful she will remember two years from now when she gets the second kitten card, as the card will no doubt find its way into the trash bin within the week.

**I mentioned to my sister how at this point in my life, I do not know with certainty HOW MANY people have molested me--if not raped me. I blame my mother for this. Her brother and cousin molested me (each, in separate incidents), the cousin digitally raped me; and part of me feels pretty certain on a primal kind of level of KNOW IT IN MY GUT that my grandfather did something inappropriate to me when I was too small to verbally articulate anything. I remember being maybe ten, and I called him a pedophile, and other than my grandfather being offended, nothing else came of it--and it makes me wonder how "ten year old me" even knew what that word meant. Then there are countless other incidents, among them Gary--the kid my mom babysat, and others. Sad, but true, but, I didn't really start to cultivate self-esteem until I married the Maharajah, and that's been only within the last 17 years or so.

Too often, I have heard people (I suppose, they think they are being well-intentioned) say, "I am sure she did her best." Well, what if her best wasn't good enough? There is much more to being a PARENT than fucking and squirting a baby into the world. A huge part of being a PARENT is sustaining and protecting a child. As I near the age of 50, I've been working at sustaining and protecting myself and conditioning myself to no longer abide nor make excuses for ABUSE.

It is pretty sobering to think that what my parents thought was "parenting" was in actuality, emotionally damaging abuse. My sister and I each have our own issues to deal with, emotionally and of course our own physical medical issues, yet, somehow, we have managed to escape our abusive past and be considered by most people (and of course, our therapists) to be "high functioning," I look at my brother and look at how much worse he's been damaged--the jury is still out on whether or not he will be able to live on his own independently, or whether his own demons will render him homeless. 

Tragic.

FIVE

No further commentary is needed, is there?

FOUR

See also: Post-Paschal Post.

Out of the blue I received a text from my aunt (aka mom's flying monkey) asking ABOUT THOSE FUCKING BOOKS.

So, on top of leaving me THREE voicemails about these fucking books she's demanding I find for her, she's now recruited my aunt to reach out to me.

I kept my replies super brief to my aunt and didn't add anything else to it. 

For someone who thinks she's so self-aware, she certainly makes herself available to be manipulated by my mother.

FUCK THEM ALL.

PS: I have been reading up on Reactive Attachment Disorder--and my god. Maybe I have it? Maybe my mother, and me and my siblings have certain stripes of this disorder? 

Almost Forgot

Audrey's house still isn't sold yet, we're now waiting for the C.O.

By the time the deed is finally transferred, Shady Pines will have absorbed it all. And with her pension and Social Security now in a trust account, that's the end of the line. 

She's still demanding and bossing everyone around, not realizing very soon, she will become what I will call "indigent adjacent." Sure, her basic needs of a roof and sustenance will be met, but beyond that, there isn't a quality of life. And if she's got to suffer, then the rest of us will, too, in one form or another.

Fuck her.

Post-Paschal Post

I sent Audrey a card on Wednesday, which she received either Good Friday or Saturday. 

Easter came and went and she didn't bother to call me.

The following week, I started my spring cleaning and found three bags of sugar free candy, so I mailed them off to her. THAT, of course, elicited a call of thanks. Of course, because I DID SOMETHING FOR HER.

Last week was about the fourth week after Easter, and it took her THAT long to get around to calling me, and not to say she missed me or that she was worried (as normal mothers would), but that she wanted me to DO SOMETHING FOR HER. See? I only exist when she wants me to exist. 

Anyway, she left a voicemail on my phone at work, slurred speech and all, and I somehow deciphered the books she wanted me to get from paperback swap, and I ordered them, and I thought my participation here was done. OH NO! It's never that easy.

The next day I got YET ANOTHER voicemail asking if I got the first message (YES DUMB ASS).  And the following day I got ONE MORE voicemail, this time on the house phone. All of these calls I have not managed to call her back, because, well, FUCK HER.

And here we are, about two weeks away from my least favorite holiday, and I had a fucking epiphany yesterday. I decided when I go out to find my pink unicorn, in this case, the most neutral, most impersonal mother's day card I can find, I will buy about 5 of them, so then for subsequent years, I don't have to go through this bullshit anymore. 

There's no way to figure out the correct # of cards to buy. If I buy 5, she'll probably die next year, and if I buy 10, she'll die 11 years from now. So I can't win for losing. But I am tired of this bullshit holiday. Resent it, even! But I think buying the cards in bulk is a brilliant idea, and one I am embarrassed to say that it's taken me THIS LONG to figure this out.

Shady Pines: A Screed on Food

So the very same weekend as "Who Flung Poo," Audrey ends up in the hospital too, this time with YET ANOTHER raging cellulitis infection. She manages to call me and leave a voicemail about my brother, and never mentioned anything about HER being in the hospital--not that it matters to me really. She has gone WEEKS without calling me, and there she is, calling me to convey that my brother was in the hospital, and I have no doubt she wanted to gossip about what got him there. I wasn't having any of that, and let the call go to voicemail. She called again this past weekend, and again, I let it go to voicemail, as her birthday is on 3/1, and there is no way in hell I am going to call her twice in less than five days. Fuck that noise.

Before I get ahead of myself, here is a photo of what her dinner on Sunday was, at Shady Pines. Now mind you, she is on "self pay," and we're still waiting for the sale of her house to go through. 

The above is a photo of what you get served for dinner at a nursing home. Mom is on self-pay to the tune of $11,000 (and as of current writing, she has racked up close to $55-66,000, which is more than half of the value of her house). I have absolutely no doubt that they have it on file that mom is a diabetic who has diverticulitis. Look at that "welfare dog," plus TWO different forms of cabbage. 

Now I'm not a tube steak snob. I've been known to have a hotdog (on an actual hot dog bun!) and some cole slaw for dinner; however, if I paid someone $11,000 a MONTH for my room and board (et al), I'd expect more than this. And yet, there's a bit of irony, knowing how mom worked for 25 years in the kitchen of a nursing home--oh those poor souls! As if they didn't have enough troubles, landing them in a nursing home, but to eat mom's cooking on top of that? Surely it's one of the inner rings of Dante's hell.

Food has always been a continual theme in mom's life--food controlled her, and by extension, she controlled us with food. 

Years ago, I worked with a friend whose mom was from Ireland, and she boiled everything. She and I would go toe-to-toe, story by story, inventorying particular dishes each of our moms made that we were forced to choke back. I don't remember which of my mom's particular dishes won that contest, whether it was her grease-laden Meatball Stroganoff or her Bluefish Marinara. I am starting to dry heave a bit just thinking about this.

Then there's the matter of mom's Killer Meatloaf, which my sister and I are CONVINCED mom never actually cooked, but instead, she'd mix up the meatloaf and leave it out on the counter, unrefrigerated, until the sad, murky meat-slab turned brown and serve it up to us. It IS plausible, especially given how every time we'd eat her meatloaf, we'd all get sick. Every last one of the 5 of us, 6 if you include this one friend who was like a stray cat at dinner time, every last one of us sick, with a solitary toilet for us to all compete. TMI: Trust me. Nearly everything can be used as a toilet if you are desperate enough. 

Then there's the matter of birthdays, and how she'd use food to control the tone of our "special day." And this isn't something unique to me, everyone has a story. Every year for nearly 30 years, mom would make a German Chocolate Cake for my brother as she got it in her head that was his favorite--no dice, his favorite is an Italian rum cake!

The very last birthday I decided to give her access to me was the year I turned 31. Before the visit, she asked what I wanted for my birthday dinner and birthday cake. "Sirloin salad and red velvet cake" was my reply. This was the first and last of my birthdays where the Maharajah attended. And I guess mom changed the menu up thinking "he's Indian, Indians like HOT food" and she made roasted chicken parts and then promptly dumped an entire jar of Italian style pickled peppers on top (the dish was damn near inedible). And my birthday cake? Entenmann's crumb. And in keeping with her lack of Give a Fuck, she didn't even invest in a small box of birthday candles, and instead, jammed a 12 inch taper candle in the cake. The whole thing was so regrettable.

The only thing that could even come close to the birthday meal fuckery is mom's birthday gift bestowment. This was done so regularly, it almost is a trademark: she'd wait until the last possible moment to run to the supermarket or pharmacy and buy the first random piece of crap she could. She would hand the gift recipient the bag from the supermarket or pharmacy--and inside it would be: an unsigned birthday card, a roll of tape, a new Bic pen, a packet of gift wrap, and the shitty gift, unwrapped. She couldn't give a shit enough to wrap the gift or sign the card.  

The last birthday gift she ever got me was when I was 30 and was in the throes of leaving my exhusband. She went to the supermarket and bought some random clown marionette, making some claim that I should hang it above my bed, given the bed is probably seeing a lot of action with all the CLOWNS I date.

March 1st is her birthday. And I will get her the same thing I get her every year: a box of assorted sugar free chocolates. On the surface at least, it looks like a nice gift. My gift is passive-aggressive as all fuck, given mom has ZERO impulse control, and will eat the entire box pretty much all in ONE GO, shoveling each piece into her gaping maw before the previous piece is done being chewed or swallowed. She does this without fail, without exception, despite the box having a warning on it that "excess consumption causes diarrhea." 

IMHO, a "thank you" or other acknowledgment is the gift you give in return when someone does something nice for you. She "thanks" me the next day, in the form of a voicemail where she snarls into the phone about how my gift made her so sick/shit her pants--never once thinking that the chocolate didn't make her sick, but her LACK OF CONTROL was what made her sick. But whatever. 

So, to know the consistent diet of regrettable foods she'd serve us, and now know she's a captive audience at Shady Pines and they are serving HER regrettable food, it is karma in action, imho.

I have gone most of my life with the awareness that, in all probability, I wasn't going to get an inheritance, when I cast my gaze upon that welfare dog with the double dose of cabbage, I cannot help but think for at least a petty hot second, "that's where my inheritance is being spent." On a tiny, tiny level, I did have a hope of a consolation prize for the assortment of abuse and fuckery I received from my mother.

More: Merde Maelstrom

So, mom has been in Shady Pines since around August. She wasted precious time "deciding" to stay (Hobson's Choice was in October), when we all could have used that time to empty out her house in a more casual manner.

When things looked like they were organized and on their way to get the house ready for sale, our brother's life pretty much imploded, as was indicated mid-month in December.

So in the meanwhile, my sister's boss has decided to buy the house. Initially with the intent to "flip" it, but also has made an arrangement to allow our brother to live there (pay rent, utilities and property tax, too), and at some time in the future, the house will be sold to our brother, assuming he doesn't fuck things up.

One of my super powers is to see problems before others. And even though I voiced my concern to my sister, the plan continued. I thought SURELY if something were to go sideways it would be AFTER the sale of the house. And to date, no, the sale has not been finalized yet. ANYTHING COULD HAPPEN. I envisioned the brother working on his car, outside, loudly drinking beer with a few of his asshole buddies, and someone contacting the HoA on him. But no. That would be an IDEAL situation.

The weekend before last, a collection of absurdities occurred. First, he was stalking the YentaBeast on FB, and when she said she was going to do a number of things, one of which was see her therapist, he blasted her back with, "Liar. He's in Jamaica."  

Then, despite being advised by our sister to NOT have the YB drop his kid off at the house, he did precisely that. Prior to the YB arriving, he was outside walking his dog. This detail amuses me, given that the dog shits so much IN THE HOUSE that I bet the dog is pretty much empty while he's out on his walk.

And the YB shows up with the kid in tow. And a screaming match ensued, culminating in him tossing the sack of still warm dogshit in the car WHERE HIS KID IS. The neighbors called the cops, and while the cops were en route to respond to a domestic dispute, with Fred Sanford-like timing (ELIZABETH! I'M COMIN' TA GET YA!), the brother's defibrillator starts zapping him. And upon arriving and making a report (see? a paper trail is being established--and will no doubt work well to support a restraining order), they then took him to the ER.

Six hours after getting out of the hospital, he then, cluelessly, calls his daughter to see if she wants to go out to dinner with him. And no-shit-Sherlock! She doesn't want to go out to dinner with him, after he terrorized her with a bag of dogshit. When our sister informed him how this is going to play out, and how he'll be lucky if after the divorce he'll be able to see his kid with SUPERVISED visits, his response was, "What's the big deal? The shit was still in a bag."

What he fails to realize is that divorce is an act of war. Every action has to be calculated. And well, he's given YB the upper hand, and if "I" were the YB, I'd sure as shit get a restraining order on him and have grounds to do so, given he terrorized their kid. 

The mind reels, and the question everyone comes to initially is, "What kind of father would throw dogshit on their kid?" And this is usually met with me saying, "The same kind of father who would throw (like a spear or javelin) the front fork of a bicycle at their kid." Yep. My dear-old-dad did that very thing TO ME (I was about 11 or 12--close to the age his daughter is right now). And luckily I am a supreme clutz and the grass was wet and I slipped and it was a near-miss. He threw it with such force, the bike fork stuck in the side of our wooden shed. I have no doubt in my mind he could have killed me, and just because I did NOT die that time, doesn't make what he did to me any LESS awful. 

So my brother has the worst characteristics of both parents: dad's seething resentment/emasculinity/hostility, and mom's lack of impulse control. All of this is going to lead to him not only losing ANY kind of contact with his kid, but no doubt, if he doesn't get a grip on reality, and start paying bills and quit half-assing things, he's going to totally sabotage having a roof over his head.

Topic For Next Week's Session With My Therapist

Where we left off:

My sister's boss is buying mom's house and will be renting the house to our brother, who will rent with option to buy until he reaches the age whereby he can own the house (retirement village).

Sis went to the house with someone who was there to give an estimate of the fair market value of the home. Sis walked in and the place was riddled with dog shit, and in the dining room were four truck tires stacked up (why not the garage? see previous posts about his hoarding). They then walked through the kitchen where, hanging on the pantry door, was what I will refer to as a "titty calendar" (the type mechanics get as promotionals from vendors they buy from regularly). They then went into his 10'x10' bedroom which is pretty much overwhelmed by the California King sized bed, and on each of the four walls is plastered enormous posters of JOAN COLLINS. (Now let that marinate in your membrane for half a beat--my brother flicks his bean to the image of Joan Collins.)  And of course, strewn about are DVDs of porn.

I feel confident the porn and titty calendar all remain out in the open when my 12 year old niece is there on the weekends.

I feel confident that he makes no point of hiding any of these objectifying images, given that when dad was in the hospital for his mitral valve replacement, and the surgical liaison came out to let us know dad was taken off the heart-lung machine, our brother proceeded to show the surgical liaison, A FUCKING STRANGER TO US ALL, porn clips on his phone.

I do not have an open and communicative relationship with our brother. He doesn't reply to my texts when I send him something absurd (this is almost always a juicy, well-baited hook to get him to reply). He is fully ensconced in the denial stage he is in, in denial about his own contributions to how or why his marriage is in the shitter, and the how or why his daughter hates him.

I think of how hostile he is to every female--especially our sister who has valiantly gone above and beyond what would be expected to help him (see also: HER BOSS IS BUYING MOM'S HOUSE, thereby helping mom who is in a nursing home; and HER BOSS WILL BE RENTING THE HOUSE to our brother). 

He thinks he's hit rock bottom. But he hasn't.

I suspect he might be mentally handicapped to the point where he cannot live on his own and cannot handle mundane yet simple tasks like writing checks, bill paying, as well as basic/minimal follow through regarding his divorce. 

While I don't wish it to happen, as I know it'd IMMEDIATELY AND NEGATIVELY impact our sister's standing with her boss, but I JUST KNOW in my bones that our brother is not going to pay his rent or his taxes on time. I just know it. And I'll crack that up to our brother being mentally handicapped (or developmentally stunted, due to a lifetime of being coddled, or BOTH). 

Also, in light of the whole #MeToo public discussion, it would be interesting for me to witness, and devastating for him to experience, if his daughter mentioned directly (or a friend mentioned indirectly) to a teacher or guidance counselor about feeling uncomfortable being surrounded by sexually objectifying imagery when she visits her father on the weekends. There's a zero tolerance for stuff like this, and teachers and guidance counselors are considered First Responders, and pretty much would have to report this to the authorities. It would be interesting to see how he'd respond to an impromptu home inspection by social workers.

I have spent nearly 17 years wishing the YentaBeast would just go away. And I hope she sticks to her guns and does just that. And takes their kid to Florida to be with her mom. While this is not perfect, as the YentaBeast is a hot mess unto herself, but at least their daughter won't be surrounded by PORN at her mother's or grandmother's house.

Yet, there's this persistent worry we have, that he will cave, and find some way to beg the YentaBeast not to leave. He still communicates with her and tags her on photos on FB. He's in denial. And he thinks he's still in love with her. And despite our sister informing him if he goes back to YentaBeast "that's it," sis will be done with our brother.

I'd be interested to see what happens next--to see who will cave first/next.

Then there's the analysis of these rather intense behaviors, and realizing, "holy shit, that's 100% dad." And seeing how sis spent years taking care of dad, and now mom, and holy crap, taking care of our brother who is truly living a parallel or extended narrative of our father's. The answer to "how did this even happen?" I cannot help but connect the dots back to our parents. My brother truly possesses ALL the negative traits of both of our parents. He's living the "what if dad left mom" scenario that I play out in my head--and what he's going through right now is exactly what dad wanted to avoid, and that's why he did absolutely nothing to extricate himself from his own unhappy marriage. 

In the meantime, I've been home from my trip two weeks (as of tomorrow), and I have left two voicemails for mom, of which, I doubt she could fat finger her way through her cell phone buttons and HEAR THAT, YES AUDREY--I CALLED YOU TWICE!" She's left me several voicemails "I haven't heard from you... blah blah blah."  When I was away and unable to call or email at will, it was inconvenient, yet, being totally candid here--I could really appreciate NOT continuing in this cycle of telephonic stupidity. Would it be cruel for me to just want her to bork out? I mean, hey, for years she stopped going to other people's homes, then she structured a lifestyle where everyone and everything had to COME TO HER (9-almost-10 years of this), and inconveniently she decided (despite it being an obvious Hobson's Choice) to stay in the nursing home, and has essentially warehoused herself. I have nothing left to give on this topic. I feel guilt as I know I shouldn't wish it, but here we are.  

Will he blow his head off and/or take someone else out in the process?
Will he have a fatal heart attack?
Will our sister?
Will he take YentaBeast back?
If he does, will our sister find the fortitude to cut him off completely?

And in the meantime, at Shady Pines, Audrey has been hoarding slices of bread in her dresser, and basically is a human equivalent of a compost heap. 

I take no glee in this. And this is craziness. But at least it's not a craziness of my own design. And even that's not enough to placate me. This is all just sad.