Archive for the ‘The Ugly’ Category


I guess I should have known that the relieved ‘high’ of my last entry wouldn’t last very long.

Sunday night, my mother was just…I’m not even sure what word to use.  ‘Crazy’ doesn’t seem to fit, because she wasn’t manic or anything like that.  She’s just not firing on all cylinders.  For the past several days, I haven’t been able to make any noise at all because if I did–like when my bottle of shampoo fell off the ledge and into the bathtub–she would immediately be all panicked and asking if I was alright.  It wasn’t a normal reaction; it was a gross overreaction.  Sometime Sunday evening, out of nowhere she came to my room and asked if I was okay, and then just began sobbing and saying she was having a panic attack.

I just let her walk away and didn’t say a word.  By this point, I’m so full of anger that she probably could have begun cutting herself and I might not have done much more than call the police and go back to my room.

As usual of late, I didn’t actually wind down to sleep until after midnight.  I usually get to bed around 10, but my brain is so active and panicked these days that I can’t seem to quiet it down.  I keep my bedroom door locked–mainly a habit of living alone, but also because I don’t trust my mother not to randomly barge in during the night.  My fears were not unfounded: as I was settling down, she abruptly opened my door and just stood there in the doorway.  She mumbled something about a panic attack and wanting to make sure I was there…and then she proceeded to shuffle in and pat up and down my leg repeatedly.  It was as though she couldn’t be sure I wasn’t just a hologram.

I snapped at her several times to go back to bed, and she didn’t even respond.  She just kept patting me to make sure I was there.  At last, I slapped her away.  “GO TO BED!!!” I shouted, to which she gave a delayed-yet-piteous “I know you hate me” and shuffled back out.

It wasn’t until afterward that I realized I had locked my door after all.  Mom had just taken down one of the little silver keys our landlord placed above each door and unlocked the damn thing.  No knocking, nothing–she just invaded my privacy like it was nothing at all.  I honestly believed I might finally give myself a heart attack, with the way it was beating so furiously.  It took me another half hour or more to get to sleep after that, and even then I had to pile things in front of my door to be sure she wouldn’t come back in again.

Somewhere in the night, she must have gone back into one of her manic rages, because I awoke to yet another of her stupid notes telling me I couldn’t use “her” car (oh, you mean the one I’ve been paying the upkeep on?).  Luckily, about twenty minutes later she told me she needed to go to the ER, and thereby forgot everything she’d said before.  She’d whimsically decided to detox herself over the weekend, and her hands were shaking uncontrollably and she was nauseated and all that good stuff.

I would have gladly stopped at the curb and pushed her out the door, but naturally I went in with her instead.  The woman I talked to at the front desk has a husband who’s an alcoholic, and it struck me yet again how odd it is–and terribly, terribly sad–that once you open up about something like this, you suddenly find out how many others are also suffering from a similar situation.

The doctors supposedly “evaluated” her and deemed her mentally competent enough to leave, despite my having called yesterday to say that I believe she’s a danger to herself and possibly to me (because if she can now unlock my bedroom door and enter unasked, I don’t trust her anymore).  I wasn’t aware a human being could hold this much anger and still be able to function.  The fact that I haven’t committed some type of violent act is a testament to my fear of the law, because I dream of it daily.

And while I’m at it, I’m going to confess one other awful thing: I wish she would just die and get it over with.  Sure, I’d regret it later, but honestly?  Just die.  It’ll make things easier for everyone.  At least I can mourn a death and gradually move on; I can’t mourn her various mental illnesses and move on because they just keep going.

Even my damn dog is starting to show signs of stress.  Most people wouldn’t think an animal could be affected like this, but for the past couple of days she’s been showing physical symptoms (that I won’t get into here).  She just got better today, and of course now my useless, mentally-incompetent mother is back home so they’ll probably start right back up again.

I hate this.  I hate being in this situation, and I hate her, and I hate that I can’t decide how I want to make my escape.  At times like this, I just hate life in general.  And you too, God.  You’re pretty shitty, too, and not just for what’s going on with me.  There.  That feels better.


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