Reason to Hate

I hate you. I will never forgive you for what you have done to this family. You ruined us all. Your selfishness and immaturity is the reason I am sitting here now. And the worst part is that nobody saw it but me, and that makes it look like I created this mess, like I am the villain. Your actions and ultimatums, your accusations and innuendos- that’s why I had to do it. You were so very crafty, gaslighting me with surgical precision over 2 decades. I almost completely lost myself.But I digress. This isn’t about me; it’s about her.

And so here I sit. Alone except for the awkward and occasional stranger who thinks this is where they will be waiting, too. My tears and snot and anger and muttering and growling soon sends them to safer, saner areas of the floor. The waiting room chairs were bought to match the wallpaper and the light fixtures, not for comfort. Every time I change position, the fabric is stiff and itchy, and the cushions slide. I imagine they looked really nice in the artist’s rendition: soothing earth tones, ample seating, inviting layout. It doesn’t work though. Instead I am just made that much more uncomfortable, irritated and irrational. The lighting is harsh, despite the fancy recessed bulbs. This makes me squint, but I doubt anyone could tell since my face feels swollen and puckered from crying.

My daughter is somewhere behind the heavy, industrial, cherry-wood doors opposite the room I am in. They glide open on hydraulics when someone with a plastic badge hurries past the waiting room doorway. I’m guessing a pocket door for this room might be hidden so people like me could be shut in and away from the public, or more likely kept away from the regular families, the ones who know how to contain their emotions during a crisis. But fuck that! Somewhere in that brightly lit maze of white washed walls, hard tile floors, fluorescent humming and indistinct murmurs is my little girl, with bandages wrapping her arms and legs, an IV dripping into her veins and her cold body piled under warmed blankets. And it’s your fault, and I will never forgive you. Good thing you aren’t here, or you would be back there in your own bed all bandaged and bruised, bleeding and possibly breathing only with assistance.

She said the pain inside is too much. She misses you but you never call or text, not even on holidays. She hates me and my new boyfriend who I had no right to bring into the FAMILY’S house. I went to her room to say hello. She was in the bathtub. There were broken razors and blood and a half empty bottle of FireBall Whiskey… She’s only 16. She was crying, but mostly tired. Now she’s sleeping. And hopefully when she wakes up, I’ll be able to shoulder the responsibility, to find the starting knot in all her tangled emotions and confusion, and will be able to unravel her threads of anger, hate, self doubt, pressure, and pain. This is why I hate you. And I will never forgive you.

(Author’s note: the image is not my own. I found it on another blog about cutters. I tried to find the initial source but have been unsuccessful. The story is a dramatization of actual events.) 


Naked Mole Rats

I have a teenage daughter. She’s 16 to be exact. She is a lot like me in many ways: she’s fucking hilarious, she’s more empathetic than the average person, she’s smart but finds school a better social than educational environment, and she cries when she is overtired. And she has her own sense of style and fuck you if you don’t like it attitude….Where we are different is the idea that certain natural body features need to be obliterated in order to be attractive.

I’m talking about body hair. I don’t get it. I understand the Victoria’s Secret Angels (which is a totally ‘nother rant for another time,) competition body builders, and swimmers annihilating every hair follicle on their body, although I still wonder if Michael Phelps’ leg hair would have changed anything. But is arm hair really that repulsive? I occasionally paint my toenails, usually around the time all the color from the last 5 -minute -boredom -killer pedicure wears off. Apparently I have 3 toe hairs that my daughter had pronounced “revolting,” and I am supposed to be shaving my toes…

Which leads to the rest of my gorilla suit-like skin. I pretty much shave randomly, in random places. I am currently trying waxing …. And it is less than pleasant… But I have also found I can use the “I’m growing it out to waxing length” as a legit excuse for the truth- I’m too lazy and I really don’t care enough to worry about depilation. Maybe watching “Desperately Seeking Susan” too many times influenced my follicular apathy. Maybe I was married too long and just stopped caring. Maybe my experience with the most torturous device ever invented- The Epilady- at age 14 scarred me for life. Or maybe I’m still just a rebel, fighting “the man” and what industry tells me I should be… Ya, let’s go with that one…


I Gave Birth to a Demon

I finished reading “Oppositional Defiant Disorder: A mother’s survival” By Zenia Marsden. Wasn’t impressed.  My son is a lunatic. He has locked me in the bathroom, punched holes in the wall, broken doors, ruined a specially cooked dish that was for a pot luck, phoned me at work every 15 minutes to ask for money (Ya, that went over well with my employers!)  called me names even hardcore criminals and gangsters don’t call each other’s mothers. I’ve heard it all by way of advice: ignore him, take things away, positive reinforcement, make him “earn” things back, take his door off the hinges and give him only the legal necessities, medicate him, press charges against him…  Ya, ya, ya…you all are just such experts on dealing with a kid who has no qualms about pinning you to a wall and threatening you, especially one who used to be super sweet and want to sit on “the big chair” and read with you…

There’s something extraordinarily hearbreaking when a once tender, kind, funny, loving and thoughtful child turns into something out of a B-rated horror flick. It’s hard to explain that his behavior isn’t the ordinary rebellion. And it’s even harder to explain why I will still defend him with my last breath. He’s my son. Period. I love him beyond measure. Even when he is wrong. Even when he is holding my arms over my head and calling me names that make drill sergeants cringe. Maybe it’s because I have “Stockholm syndrome.” Maybe it’s because I’m a codependent enabler. Maybe it’s because I’m weak and stupid. Or maybe it’s because I am his mother, and I have hope that the boy who picked me dandelions for Mother’s Day is still in there somewhere…


Image by bANANA-jam on