Daddy Issues

Perhaps it's convenient to blame my dad for being victimized. My mother's brother (2 yrs older than me) and his friend both groped me (I was 13) in my swimming pool; and the following year, a cousin of my mother's (7 yrs older than me) did that, plus I believe digitally raped me.

I remember being at my mother's other brother's home and blurting out about the former groping me, which was met with me being slut shamed and called a trouble making slut, while others present sat there, slack jawed and silent.  I remember this event with crystalline detail. My uncle's youngest daughter was born (after an ectopic pregnancy). My aunt served her trademark "deep dish biscuit pie." It was hazy, humid, and July or August. 

I remember this was the last time we visited my uncle's home in Scotch Plains.

I remember how it seemed even my brother, who was ten at the time, seemed to know about the degree I was violated, yet nothing was done about it, and dad didn't seem all too concerned until my brother antagonized the cousin and the cousin brandished a hunting knife, and that was the last summer we all went to my great-aunt Millie's beach house during the summer.

I remember how at the age of 16 after being slut shamed and still being a virgin, I went out and intentionally lost my virginity, since I was being accused of it, I might as well be DOING IT. (Lame argument, but fuck, I was 15 going on 16).

I remember vividly how neither of my parents bothered talking to me about sex or how to protect myself (whether from pregnancy or rape); yet, I remember how disappointed my dad was to learn of this, and went out in the backyard and started beating the piss out of his maroon Duster--then later going out there with a plunger to plunge out the dents.  And of course, dad knew about this, because my mother couldn't keep her yapper shut.

I remember how my mother, I suppose attempting to project responsibility onto someone else, in this case the mother of the boy with whom I had sex, his mother was an RN and worked full time, and she wasn't home, so yes, easy to vilify a woman who isn't on the scene--unlike a clueless, out of touch, self-absorbed stay at home mother (like MY mother).

I remember how only a few years ago (upon learning of the death of this boy's mother), I reminded my mother of how she embarrassed me by calling that boy's mother, trying to pin the blame on the boy or his mother for what happened, and again, I was slut shamed by the boy's mother. "Did I really do THAT? Why would I do that?" This was met with my reply, "I don't have a fucking clue."

I remember how the year after losing giving away disposing my virginity, I started seeing a man who was 7 years older than me. I recall how utterly shitty my relationship with my mom was, and how both my parents acquiesced and let me cross state lines into PA for a weekend, so we could attend a wedding (and bone in this guy's grandmother's house). Only recently has my mother been told by someone who knew what was going on back then, that was child neglect, by her doing nothing at all to prevent it, she was complicit in it (statutory rape). (Why did this someone keep their yapper shut all those years ago? I don't have a clue. IMHO, they are just as complicit as my parents.)

I remember in 2003? being someplace I suppose I  shouldn't have been, dropping off food for a friend, as they were not well, and as I pulled off my pull-over windbreaker, it was still over my head (like a bag of sorts), he assaulted me. I was too disoriented and in shock to do anything about it.  It's only NOW (thirteen years later) that I am able to process this as what it was, and what it was, was not consented.

My father SHOULD have been my protector, and yet, failed. Obviously, failed. In the case of my uncle and my cousin, he did nothing, whether beat the piss out of either of them or file charges against that cousin. He did nothing. I don't know to what degree he knew of everything at the time, and I held back a good lot of what was going on at the time, primarily because my mother was at her height of control and abuse, and because I knew nothing would be done. My mother no doubt would have said "I asked for it," and her mother was the one who called me a trouble making slut. 

I remember how when my first marriage imploded, all my father had for me were tears.

I remember also how when I was going to get married to the Maharajah and travel the world, my dad told me that if I ever got kidnapped (while traveling, I guess?), there's nothing he can do.

Come October, my father will be gone eight years. I need him. But what I really need is the person he should have been or could have been, but was either unwilling or outright unable to be.

And I think of the Maharajah, and how in so many ways he encompasses good qualities my dad had. He's a good provider and partner, and I think of things like him doing my delicates/brassieres or him going out on a snowy day to clear off the car, these are little things that dad would do--but I feel so guilty or selfish that I want more. I want to feel protected. I want to feel like the Maharajah would be the man I needed my dad to be. I need him to be a dragon slayer, if I need him to be.

Having Normal Impulses For Abnormal People

Last time I saw my mother was December, so we're now into the seventh month without seeing her--this is one of the longest times I've gone without a visit, save for 2009 when I avoided her entirely (after the whole manipulation involving the facade of dad's "Memorial Mass," which was nothing more than a regular Saturday evening Vespers, where mom paid $5 donation for the candles). 

But I still have pangs. And funny thing is, just when I think to myself, "It's been a while since I spoke to mom," she'll call me; and visa versa, she'll think about me, and I'll call. In this case, she was saying on Sunday how she hadn't heard from me, and in Monday's mail was a care package I sent (which I sent on Saturday!), nearly a case of these sugar free cookies she likes (which I get at the Dollar Store), a few books and some magazines. 

She called to let me know the parcel arrived, and I let that go to voicemail (just to maintain the boundary that unless it is an emergency, I am at work). And I called her first chance I got after work. And we had a normalish conversation.

"I'd really like to see you."  See? Even she, in all her abnormal-ness, is able to articulate normal sentiments (at times!). This wasn't said in a pathetic tone, either. No manipulation. Just a genuine parental sentiment. See? She's capable of it! (when the mood strikes her)

"I'd really like to go out to lunch with you," was my reply.  

But the reality is, she hasn't left her home since roughly Mother's Day 2014, when she came home from the nursing home. And she's to the point now where her stamina is so reduced, even the act of showering and getting herself dressed, something so BASIC, actually tires her out. Even my sister the LPN who lives local, the one who thinks she does so much for mom, won't go to the trouble of taking mom places outside her house, because it's just not worth the risk. I just wish there were some form of transport option for mom, so if she wanted to go out, she COULD.

I wish I could get the husband to go with me, to keep me company especially on the longer ride home, especially given my hypoglycemia (and the fact the ride home is 3 hours, and within that time frame, I will start to wane, and sometimes get the shakes and get fatigued, and I"d feel better, safety wise, if someone were with me), but there's no convincing him of it. And my mother knows this, too. 

The excuses write themselves: the nearly three hour drive puts my back in spasm; Memorial Day to Labor Day the traffic to the shore is just HORRENDOUS; and then add to it the hypoglycemia, and well, to say I'm reluctant, is an understatement.

Let's see what I can do.

Perhaps I've got ADD

I've blocked my aunt from texting me, and I might consider doing the same to my brother, thus forming a communications choke point where they'd have to either call my house phone or email me.  

I'm done.

No Wallow Zone. Just an acknowledgment

It had been close to 2-3 weeks since I last spoke with my mother. Saturday after errands but before going into the house, I gave a call, and miracle of MIRACLES, she picked up.  There isn't much to be said anymore. No new dramas in either of our lives, and certainly nothing is new going on in her life. Unless someone calls or visits her, or unless there's a new health drama, there is absolutely nothing going on in her life. 

And there's not much going on in my life that I'd care to share with her (or the rest of the family, as she'd no doubt inform everyone of whatever is going on with me, as if anyone gives a shit). Nearly ten minutes elapsed, and before I knew it, my husband was approaching my car, to assist with bringing in groceries, and I was off the phone. Nothing of any real substance shared; however, she did let me know that there was an elaborate, formal party for my uncle's 50th birthday--the uncle who is two years older than I am, the uncle who was foisted upon me and my siblings like a bastard older brother we never had. And everyone was invited. Everyone, that is, except for ME.

At some point in the weekend, I zapped my aunt a photo of me in a killer red dress I got on sale, which was met with, "Nice." Full stop. Nothing follows.

Yesterday, I zapped my brother a text wishing him a happy father's day, which was met with, "Thank you." Full stop. Nothing follows.  

The more time elapses, the more it seems the decision will be made for me, to abstain from my mother's funeral, whenever that day comes. 

Considering making the thankless trip down there for a visit, "Paratrooper Style," hopefully with my husband in tow, to ensure a rapid release. Exhausting to think about, that 5 hour drive to/from the Jersey Shore on a Saturday. Miserable drive. If I go or don't go, the results are the same: Misery. If I go, I usually regret it; and if I don't go, I feel like a shit-heel.

TL; DR; Story Time: It's Not Easy Being Green (or in this case, INTJ)

(Edited about twice, to be as articulate as possible, as new nuances of this TL; DR; percolate to the surface, demanding to be acknowledged.)
 
For as honest but critical in an unvarnished way I am about how I perceive others, I am even more critical of myself. I am my own worst critic. I think we ALL are, but truly, I'm rotten to myself. Furthermore, it takes me a while to "go easy on myself" or to even get to the point of either accepting or forgiving certain transgressions of mine. 

I figured I'd dump it here rather in any of my other blogs, as somehow, I am quite sure, it circles back and is related SOMEHOW to how my family fucked me up (or not, who knows, but this blog IS devoted to the dysfunction in my life). 

So I'm presenting a series of inter-related stories (of events that have transpired in the last 7-10 days) to illustrate how rotten I am to myself, and how critical I am, and how even in what I view as "seeing things as honest as I can," I still suffer. It's not that I think I'm better than anyone else. Perhaps my standards are just too high to deal with other people? I don't know. It's a theory.   Regardless, the stories will be broken down in the order that I presented them to my therapist yesterday, and I am fortunate I had a session with him yesterday evening, as I had one more story at the end present itself earlier in the day yesterday.

For any friend that is involved in these stories who may be put off or offended by reading this, offending you is not my intent. The intent here is to illustrate that no matter how critical I may be of you, I am much much more critical and unforgiving of myself. I know how imperfect I am.

PREAMBLE:

SUNDAY 
I had promised a dear friend of mine that I would attend her spoken word performance. The week prior, I was in Europe traveling, and traveling takes a lot out of me physically (which does affect my mood, too), and for roughly 8 weeks I have also been experiencing food-related anhedonia. 

So I texted her the night before and confirmed that, yes, I would be there. I texted her along the way that I was on the train, and expected into Grand Central by 5:30 and I'd be there with 10 minutes to spare. My flaw in my plan was that I had relied on my husband's advice, as he told me, "It'll be so much quicker to take a cab than to take the Shuttle to the 1." 

I exited Grand Central with the queue for the taxi stand stretching eastward by a full block, or possibly TWO. As the words "OH FUCK" looped through my mind, and as my anxiety started to mount, I hoofed it two blocks westward, thinking, "Surely I can catch a cab." 

Stopping every two blocks to attempt to hail a cab was fruitless. Every two blocks until I finally reached Bryant Park, at which point, I was now furiously texting my husband, "Why did you do this to me? It's Memorial Day weekend AND Fleet Week, and I can't catch a cab AT ALL!" Furious!   I'm still stopping every two blocks attempting to hail a cab, until I reached about 34th street where I just gave up attempting to hail a cab, and walked about as fast as my legs could move. 

At this point, I am now turning all my rage inward at myself, "Why do you bother making plans at all? You are a fucking failure! You're a horrible friend! How can you expect people to be there for you when you clearly can't be there for them?" Oh on and on I raged at myself.  However, all along, my friend knew I was on my way. And all along, my husband is watching me on "Find a Friend" on my iPhone, totally stupefied at how fast I was walking, as well as the distance I walked--I had rage-walked from Grand Central Station on 42nd Street all the way to the theater, which was on 29th, between 7th & 8th Avenues.

THE IMPETUS--WHY I WENT TO THE CITY, AKA THE PRIMARY STORY:

So I arrive at the show approximately 7 minutes late. I showed up in a full on flop sweat with what felt like a raging case of shin splints, and an anxiety attack about to GO INTO FULL BLOOM.  I got a glass of cold wine (just the thing after all that physical exertion--so hydrating!) and took my seat off stage right.  

Her show started at 6 and she was the first speaker performing.  My friend is about six feet tall, with long black hair like Morticia Adams, with about 50% of her exposed skin tattooed. She's in her early 50s and retired and goes on "rocker cruises" where the likes of KISS or MotorHead perform. Her stories involved the colorful and interesting people she encounters on her cruises. Her stories are interesting and amusing, mind you she's not a comedian. She's a story teller. And she's good. Photo slide show included. She was great.

She wraps up her bit, and exits stage left. The lights go out, and the next performer is about to take the stage. I had a brief moment where I wondered if my friend would come and get me and we'd leave, but within a few moments, I realized my friend was not going to leave and was going to wait until the end of the show.

THEN IT GETS WEIRD:

The next performer takes the stage and I immediately hated her. Even fully clothed, I knew she had a BMI of (most likely) 1%. She commanded the stage like a pro. Turns out, her stories involve how she's a poli-sci professor by day and a "cirque du soleil" LIKE aerial acrobatist/contortionist by night. She told us how she first got involved in the circus while working as a professor in China. She briefly alluded to a friend in the circus who was a midget--and to be honest, I would have liked to have learned more about the midget (because, really, who doesn't love midget stories?). She informed us (perhaps as a manipulation ploy?) that her parents were in the audience. She proceeded to tell us how each of her circus costumes were getting progressively smaller, until one day they gave her a costume that was essentially a vial of glitter. Oh, and she said how she's not the most sexually open person, which I feel quite confidently was a lie or at best, a manipulation to make what comes next appear so provocative.

She then puts on a platinum wig, and starts to disrobe. Just when I thought I could not hate her more, she strips down to black electrical tape "pasties" (forming an X over each nip), garter belt and thong, all the while giving a college level lecture on the causes of war (Powerpoint Presentation and laser pointer included), all the while strutting or contorting herself in what I guess she thinks are provocative positions. I was bored to tears and actually pissed that I had to sit through this. 

I'm not being entertained--and context is everything. To clarify: Years ago, I was at an S&M club and was weirdly entertained by witnessing someone being suspended by hooks in their flesh. Context! I wasn't expecting nudity in a story-telling performance. And fortunately it was only a half hour long, and the grand finale came in the form of her doing a back bend, all the while fellating a banana. END SCENE.  And I hated her even more, because she was so OUT THERE, I feel like she undermined my friend's confidence in her own material, which was radically different than Miss Thing w/the Banana.

EPILOGUE OF PRIMARY STORY:

We're outside thinking about where to go to eat dinner and get drinks, and some random girl comes up and bums a smoke off my friend's boyfriend, and then starts a very animated conversation which included but not limited to thinking about changing careers and muses openly about becoming a notary. I told her she should aim higher, "Fuck it, anyone can be a notary! I AM A NOTARY!" And with that, some strange man walks past and laughs and yells out, "HEY NOTARIZE THIS!" We all laugh and disappear for dinner, where we extrapolated about how Miss Thing with the Banana's "parents" weren't there, more likely her mother and her mother's love or step-father--and perhaps there's some Woody Allen and Soon Yi  level depravity going on there.   

My friend and her boyfriend are taking off, and my friend's other friend M decides to walk me to the subway, and in doing so, we pass the strange man who passed us earlier in the evening. So I playfully yell out to him, "Hey! Yo! Did you ever get that thing notarized?" And he's laughing and into it. As we continue on our way, I turned to M and ask, "You DO know him from the neighborhood, don't you?" He asks, "Why do you ask?" I said, "Because there was such an air of familiarity, surely you or A know him?" He said, "Nope, I never saw him before in my life!!" I laughed so hard, but hey, things could go sideways quick. I shrugged it off as one of those typical "New York" kind of things that happen.

THE PARALLEL STORY:

THE NEXT DAY, MONDAY:
While still reeling and feeling like a failure and a horrible friend to A (who, to her credit, reassured me, I did not let her down), I mixed up my weekly loaf of bread the next evening (which was Monday). I mixed it up thinking it would be ready to be baked off by Wednesday. 

TUESDAY
When I woke up on Tuesday morning, I was met with what I will refer to as the "I Love Lucy" batch of bread dough. The weather is getting warmer and my bread dough really responded to it. So I divided the dough, put in prepared pans and popped them in the fridge to be dealt with later when I get home. I knew I had to bake them off on Tuesday night now instead of Wednesday.

So I baked the bread, two loaves, and as is my habit, I don't have room in my freezer, and decided to bag up the spare and leave it on the door knob of the lady in our condo building, the lady I refer to in my head as "The Godmother."  

WEDNESDAY
Wednesday a.m. while heading out to my car, I hang the bread on her door. No note. No nothing; however, I know that she knows who the crazy person is who leaves her random parcels of home baked bread--I mean, who ELSE in the condo complex would do these types of random things except ME? 

Wednesday evening, I return home and The Godmother comes out, and gives me a huge hug, and wanted to thank me, and to find out what this week's variety was, and also inform me that the timing was perfect, as Wednesday was the day of her very last chemo treatment.

Point of illustration: My friend A, I promised my word and I struggled to keep it; this Godmother I promise nothing, and the timing was so fortuitous!  This further fucked me in the head. 

My therapist would stop me as I was regaling him of both the story and the parallel, and inform me that I'm not a failure, and if it were not illegal to do so, he'd slap me to get that thought out of my head. "You WERE THERE! So what! 7 minutes?" Yes yes, I'm hard on myself. I just envision my friend standing there, initially in what was an empty audience, telling her story, as gradually people came in. I contributed to her anxiety! It'll take a while for me to forgive myself... and then...

ANOTHER PARALLEL--A WEEK LATER--YESTERDAY:

A week elapses, and I'm in Manhattan to attend three appointments. I have another friend who I try to sync up my appointments when I know I'm going to what we refer to as "The Mount." She either said or implied that she had an appointment and would meet me for lunch between appointment #2 (which let out around noonish) and between appointment #3 (which was at 5:30). Okay. We planned on noon. 

She texts me around 12:15 and says can we make it for 1?* I said sure. I look at the time and it's already 12:15, and I thought I might go visit one of the few yarn stores I haven't been to yet, and then reconsidered, as it started to rain, and I wanted to be at the restaurant on time for my friend.

By the time I arrive at the restaurant it's nearing 1 p.m., and she's no where. It is now pouring, cats and dogs. I'm hungry and haven't eaten yet.  My feet are wet and cold, and I'm reduced to pacing outside like a homeless person.  I cross the street to get out of the rain, and step inside a Lush store and got some small items to kill time--as well as try to give myself that blast of dopamine I thought I was going to get from the lunch date itself.

She texts me that she's running late. Mind you, I'm on Lexington, between 61st and 62nd. "Are you okay? Where are you?" Her reply, "Parkside, 4 stops until I get to Canal Street."  (Approximately a half hour or more away).  In my head I was screaming. In my head I was LIVID. What I WANTED to blurt out was, "Wait a minute--you're not even at The Mount (right around the corner from where I was earlier yesterday)?"   But really, what good is being an asshole, other than to make two people miserable? And making her miserable wasn't going to make me feel any LESS miserable. 

What temporarily kept my ire in check was knowing she's got a SHIT LOAD of health issues, many more heavy duty and much more immediately life threatening than I do. A voice in my head said, "She's coming all the way into midtown to see me. Calm down."  

So then I looked for YET ANOTHER place to be, to get out of the rain for the undetermined interim until she shows up. I tuck into a pharmacy and buy some items, and then ask if I can sit and hang out due to the rain, and they allow it.  Had there been a Dunkin Donuts or a bar, that's where I'd go for either a hot tea or a cocktail to help take the edge off my own percolating anxiety and rage. I was connecting the dots and feeling the familiar pangs of being taken advantage of or being taken for granted, both things I am keenly tuned into.  I tried to keep the negative thoughts at bay.

My therapist then chimes in, "So, did you lay into her? Did you rip her a new asshole about being so late?" I said, "No! I was forgiving on the surface!"  He then chimed in, "So, why is it you can be forgiving to her for being nearly what? An hour or more late, and yet for your seven minutes you shredded yourself with insults?'  I said, "See? I'm worse to myself than to others."

She finally shows up, with all an appropriate amount of apologies. However, apologies don't magically give me my two hours back. I am now in a time deficit, time I will never get back.

We finally have lunch. We chit chat too long. The waiter comes by and gives the billfold. I thought/she implied she was treating. He comes by to get the check, only to realize she never put her credit card in it, at which point, I put MY card in it to speed things up. I didn't have much cash on me, and I was still planning on taking a cab to go elsewhere.  Additionally, she did not even offer to pay the tip.

I find it distasteful to nickel and dime friends, however, this was to be her treat, and it wasn't a break the bank kind of thing. And we did have a good time. But the sordid issue of coin is still there. So we exit and she's walking with me a bit and asks where I am going, and I said I needed to get to the west side for my next appointment and given the rain I'm going to take a cab. I offered to share the cab to get to Columbus Circle as that was where we both needed to be.   When we arrive, I pay--and she doesn't offer to pay even half.  Unpleasant to think about, but useful nonetheless.

This is now a trend.  This is now a thing. And this is now a thing that I no longer want to participate in. We've known each other for years, however, we've only seen each other IRL two times in two years, and mathematically, she has done this to me every time we get together. As it stands currently, this is not a "one off" type of unfortunate thing that happens from time to time--this is now something that is a trend. 

The little voice in my head tells me, "Perhaps this isn't her character? Perhaps she's that broken? Perhaps this could be air-headedness due to her health issues or any medications she may be on?"   And then the bigger voice in my head tells me, "Perhaps you see things exactly as they are. Perhaps this is your super power. JUST. PERHAPS."

As distasteful as it is for me to think this, I feel like I'm being manipulated. To feel sorry or compassion for her health situation, and then to feel like my generosity is taken advantage of, and her obvious lack of appreciation for my time.

*Allegedly, the initial cause for her delay was when she first left her house and got to the subway station, she realized she left her cell phone home and went back for it. It would have been useful to know at 12:15 she was texting me from HOME. This information would have been incredibly useful to me.  The silence/lack of that information wasted about two hours of my life, which left me pretty much outside in the rain too long, hungry, angry about the waste of time, time I'll never get back.  All I knew was I held up my end of the bargain. I showed up on time. I was a good friend, and I just feel like all of those good qualities aren't appreciated or worse, are being taken advantage of-- which of course, makes me just shut down.  The entire situation has left me emptied out of everything good I was anticipating about spending time with a friend, and has been replaced with rage and regret. 

Had she found out she forgot her phone and the weather up and shit the bed, and she realized perhaps yesterday wouldn't have worked out, why not just OWN that and say "Can we do this another time?" FINE.  This is the one occasion I actually agree with Larry David on something. 

Even if she bailed out, that would not have changed the trajectory of my day AT ALL. I would have gone to the yarn store. I would have probably gone to Lush. I would have eaten at that restaurant I picked out, I would have eaten lunch (my first meal of the day) on MY TIMETABLE, and I would have continued on to the west side to my therapy appointment. The only thing that would have changed would be that I would not have been standing out in the rain and cold for too long.  

So while I forgave her (to her face) all in the name of making peace for a friendship (as well as, why make things MORE unpleasant), I faked my way through lunch, and (here it is, two days later) I STILL left with all this misplaced rage and frustration and all the residual ICK! of "what exactly happened yesterday?"  

HEREIN LIES THE RUB:  
I can forgive her for whatever it was, yet, I cannot forgive myself for caring, or compassion, or even buying even an IOTA of any of the excuses, let alone the money issue.

THE EPILOGUE:

I am now left feeling like a hyper-critical bitch, or perhaps I've got impossibly high of standards regarding what I expect in a friend? I don't know. But I am on the verge of just completely bottoming out emotionally. It's just sad.

From when we finally ate until RIGHT THIS MOMENT roughly 48 hours later, I have been moody and bitchy, with even my husband getting on my last nerve every five minutes or so, and even told off a "friendly co-worker" ("JabippyLoo," for those who are familiar with her being featured in some of my stories about work), who wanted "story time" and when I am about two minutes from finishing said, "Oh you can finish this up later." I said, "Nope. I'm done. You lost your opportunity to see how this ends." And I pretty much told her off as I walked away. Ten years into the fourteen years I've known her it finally kicked in, but now I'm finally able to get in touch with it and articulate it to her in terms she can understand:

I even managed to post a status update on Facebook yesterday that posited the question, "Why do I even bother including others in my plans?" And my friend Kristina, a dear friend, one I can count on replied, "Because not all of us suck?"  

Touche, Kristina. Touche. Well played. And again, perspective is a great thing. A worthy truth that bears reminding; however, that aside, I'm just very disappointed and depressed. I don't like feeling like a fool or that I've misplaced my value on someone who doesn't value me the way I value her. Just a thought. My lunch date friend is not a horrible person, we just obviously have very different ideas about what's acceptable behavior to someone we consider a friend. 

Currently, I am now in insulation mode, and I'm disinclined to put myself in a position for another opportunity to feel like a shit-heel-fool. 48 hours later, I have now bottomed out completely, emotionally. I'd feel better if I'd have a good cry, but I can't even muster up a few salty tears. I. AM. THAT. EMPTY.

Feeling Resentful

My least favorite holiday is coming up, and as I'll be traveling soon enough and cannot manage yet another thankless drive to NJ for a visit (so far I haven't seen her at all this year; last time I saw her was in December). So I mailed off another mea culpa package. It's a formula at this point. A few books, hand lotion, sugar free hard candies and cookies. Bundled up and mailed off WITH a mother's day card. And it's been delivered. And nary an acknowledgment (yet).

Despite her precarious health, she is still here with us in the land of the living, almost despite her wishes and a true testament to the advances in medicine. It's not a testament to a zest for life. Heck, I don't even know what trips her trigger anymore.

To date, she has not left her house since Mother's Day 2014. TWO SOLID YEARS without going outside to get some sun on her cheeks or fresh air in her lungs, or even to make a trip to Wallyworld or even to go through the drive-thru at Wendys or Dunkin Donuts. 

Two solid years of seclusion. 

Add to this the fact her phone is unreliable. I cannot tell if it's a problem with the phone line itself or the physical phone. She seems content to bitch about it, with "it" being how no one calls her. But we do call her, and half the time the calls don't go through. And she's an adult and allegedly living independently, and she can manage this, I'm sure of it--yet she does not.

I've been to her house visiting, and the phone rings and it's a telemarketer, and she keeps them on the phone entirely too much. I cannot tell if it's a cat-about-to-eat-the-mouse type of move or if it's utter desperation, as I know many days go by where she does not interact with anyone at all.

It's an isolating life, and depressing no doubt for her. Hell, it's depressing for anyone who visits! And that in and of itself is depressing.

I've been grappling with this weirdness, this thing where I have normal impulses for someone who's clearly not normal. 

Thanks to her neglecting herself and now this seclusion, what little time we have left together on Planet Earth will never, ever involve: dining out, going out to get our hair or nails done, visiting other people, going to the boardwalk, going out to shop, or even going for a joy ride in a new car. None of these simple little pleasures are ours to enjoy. So what is left? A finite amount of visits in that house of hers that bears no sentimental value to me. Being in that house, reminded how dad's not here anymore, and hasn't been here going on eight years. Visits which will always involve take-out style meals or meals I've prepared at home, meals that aren't appreciated.

I'm sure a lot of what's going on is just a projection of her own unhappiness, but it's palpable. You can feel it and smell it. 

Another Mother's Day is almost upon us, and I'm in this no-man's land, where she's still alive, and yet I feel this grief and loss, and know there is no way I can turn this around myself. I can't. I won't. I'm totally unable to do this. I wish I could change it, but I can't.

Having Normal-ish Impulses: Status Quo Maintained

Text sent Wednesday, 10:20 a.m.
Current day and time: Friday 9:53 a.m.
No reply or other acknowledgment received on my end.

The Great Silence's status quo continues to be maintained. 

(I'm totally okay with this too. I sent the text for myself, as it's a normal impulse for a normal person to send on a milestone occasion, a 25th wedding anniversary. I did it for me to prove to myself I've still got my humanity and ability to be loving. The Great Silence has yet to quash that.)