Mother dearest (a decent sized rant to get off my chest, long)/ At least I try…

(written last night, and on my laptop so excuse the bad formatting of a hasty post before an exam)

Ah yes, here we are again, at this old familiar topic no? I’m sure you’re all sick and tired of hearing of my woes and mistreatments and what not, I know I would be. If I were you I’d yell at me and say ‘grow up! Get over it!’ but that’s just the thing dear readers, I –have- grown up, I –am- over it…I don’t complain about her every day do I? I don’t moan, bewail, cry out my self-pity all week do I? I –do- find other topics to discuss, and even perhaps make –you- lot think for a bit, but when she gets this blasted petty I –have- to say something you understand? I need some outlet for this…annoyance.

So. The event for today that prompted this post? Simple. I had an exam today, lit, no biggie, spent half the day (the half that wasn’t exam) in the school library, reading and editing one of my stories (about 61pgs worth…I got to about the 31st page before getting seriously bored of the tale and reading a Koontz book) which I didn’t mind, much more fun than calling up mother dearest and asking her to pick me up from school, not that she’d do it regardless understand? I’m still my own transport in that sense, like I need her. But that’s all a side note, let me continue, I caught the bus home and, since this morning she told me that I’d be walking home, I was fine with that. We all know I’m a bit on the large side and could use some exercise no? She tells me quite frequently. Getting off the bus a stop later than I usually do (cutting out about 200m distance) I start off. No problem. Texted my father, getting him to pay for my leavers jacket and setting up things so that I could spent the upcoming school holidays at his place, I was sweet, I had my book, it was a briskly cool day. No probs.

Then I got home. *sighs* I wasn’t sure if they were awake or not, so I simply let myself in, dumped my bag in my room and went into the kitchen, got myself something to eat and drink, and then –she- came in. First words from her mouth, in that condescending spiteful tone I think most mothers manage to create when they’re feeling superior

“Enjoy your walk?”

“Yeah.” I reply, what else do you say to that? I mean, I’m not about to break down and say ‘oh no mummy dearest, it was absolutely –horrid- it was cold and to –far- and my legs –hurt-. I’m soooooooooo sorry, please please please forgive me and pick me up from the bus stop tomorrow? I –promise- I won’t not react when a friend of mine threatens your life!’ Yeah right.

One, there is no way on this green earth I’m going to grovel to –her- of all people, I –don’t- grovel. I don’t beg, I don’t crawl, for –any- reason. And two, how can I apologise for not reacting as she thinks I should, at the thought of someone wanting to kill her when I quite frankly want to do just that? –I- am not the hypocrite here.

Well, since she was in an obviously foul mood, after asking me absently how I went in my exam ‘Alright’

“What exam was it?”

“Lit.” English literature.

“You always do well in lit you say, why don’t you think you did so well?”

“I had no quotes and a –“ mental blank before I even started the poetry section, not that I get to say that.

“That’s because you didn’t study on the weekend.”

“I tried.”

“You’re always trying.”

At this point I just walked out. Wouldn’t you? I mean, what –else- does she expect me to do? As mentioned, I hit a mental wall BEFORE the weekend, in which I had intended to study and memorise five poems and numerous quotes from Othello and Cloudstreet, not that I got to explain that to –her- of course.

So yes, wouldn’t you want to avoid –that- little argument waiting to happen? I’m heartily sick of them. But no, she couldn’t leave it lie and about what…maybe fifteen minutes later she knocks on my door and opens it, walking in “What, aren’t you a member of this family tonight?”

I said “What? I’m just reading.”

No reply to that. “Oh and I need some pads.” Sanitary napkins etc, female things. So she goes and takes some. No, by your leave, no may I have some, just ‘I need some, gimme, yoink’.

After calling the cat to get her to come out (failing) she left. I was like yay…maybe now she’ll leave me be? No such luck. A half hour later, she’s back again “I don’t like the person you become when you’re on the internet.”

I don’t reply, I’ve heard this all before and she doesn’t bother to listen so hey, why bother?

“So you’ve got two choices, just like she has (the bf’s 6yr old daughter), you have the choice that either the internet is just for study, nothing else BUT study, or I get it disconnected.” She was rather smug at pronouncing this. I’m heartily sick of that threat. I even called her bluff once, granted that it was in a major fight, but I would have seen it through ‘go on then, get it disconnected, I’ll even watch you’. Nothing happened, since I’d gotten so fucking sick of her that I’d walked out. Literally, I had every fucking intention of spending the night on the streets.

I didn’t reply.

“Well, what’s your choice?!” Like I had one?

“I’ll use it for study.”

She gets the cat, murmuring “She doesn’t want you in here, she doesn’t want anyone in here, hates everyone she does.” Someday, I should tell her how keen my hearing is no?

I’ll admit quite freely that I’m petty myself. I mean, I can’t wait until I move out and I can go to social (social security, the dole) and say “I’m living away from my parents now, and I’d like to change the account number that my payments go into.” See, they go into –her- account. And with that last, little sentence, it’s $170 a fortnight from her budget, gone, like that. And then there’s the $90 my father pays her as child support, money to feed me, that’s fortnightly. Lets see….$340 + $180 a month that’s…$520 so far. Then there’s my $40 rego and electricity (fortnightly), the phone bill when it comes in (around another $50-70) so lets go for the upper end…and take $20 a fortnight…So, we have $520 + $40 + $70 that’s 520 + 110 …$630 a month, on average. Poof, gone. Petty of me to relish that eh?

Ah yes, and she’s just opened the door and said “You can come out of your room now, I’m going to bed. Thankyou for your conversation tonight, it has been both riveting and stimulating, most enjoyable. Thankyou.”

“Good night.” What else do you say to that? I mean, it’s not –my- fault she was in a foul fucking mood when I came home, it’s –her- fault that I chose to –stay- in my room rather than argue with her. Can you see my point?

Oh, and yesterday because I didn’t do the dishes in the time period she wanted them done, she threw a temper tantrum. Pulled the phoneline from the socket and screetched at me to get off. I’m like….look at the detached phoneline, look at my laptop, look at her, look at the detached phoneline. “Fine. Do you want me to do them now?” The dishes that is.

“It’s a bit fucking late aint it?”

Charming person, my mother. Throws the takeaway on the table “There’s your dinner.”

“Can I at least go on to say goodbye?”

“You can go on after dinner to say goodbye. And then you’re doing the dishes.”

I don’t have anything against chores, I –know- I’m a lazy person, I admit it freely, I admit my faults. I don’t like that they’re there, I don’t –like- to know that I’m more similar to my mother than I thought I was but…I admit it. I see my flaws, I know them, I try to fix them (I fail mostly, but that’s due to laziness, another flaw) but… you know? I get it done, I help out, not as much as she would like (ie, doing everything) but a hell of a lot more than she portrays me doing. But then, it’s not hard to do more than nothing, now is it?

I try to be understanding, to see her side of things and all, I try to be patient, I try. I mostly succeed too…I rarely have to blow up at her, not that it does any good, and I blow up even less than I did, because of this. I can state what she says, what she does, what I do, my own thoughts. Sure it’s justification, but I admit that! I admit that I’m not the angel I might portray myself as, I know I’m far from the perfect daughter, far from the perfect anything really, hell, I’m barely even good. I’m often fond of saying, when pushing someone to do something that is good for them and they reply ‘i’ll try’ I say ‘Good, that’s all anyone can ever ask of you, that you’ll try.’ But trying isn’t good enough any more is it? I –try- my hardest at school, I –try- to do the best that I can, but my best isn’t good enough, and trying doesn’t cut the mustard any more. *sighs* I try. What more can you ask of me? What more do you want? I try. I fail! I know I do, I fail miserably, but at least I –try-. ‘Tis better to have tried and failed than to have never tried at all’ someone famous said that I think, I don’t know who though. Or maybe he was talking about love? Meh.

I try.

I try to stay sane, I try to be happy, I try to smile, I try to enjoy the life I have, I try to be grateful, I try to be understanding, but …I fail. More often than not I fail. You who know me fairly well, you might wonder why I’m such a good friend, in your words? Why I care? Because I try. It’s not hard, to care about someone, it’s not hard to be there, to listen, to help. I’ve tried to help myself, I’ve failed miserably, but I still tried! I’m too stubborn and proud to let anyone else help, and compared to others that I’ve helped, my problems are microscopic. One (I failed to help him completely heal, unfortunately) was raped when he was 13, repeatedly. Every lunchtime, for a week by these three boys. He is now petrified of men, of people, he can’t trust anyone. He’s given me the details of a couple of the rapes, and trust me, it’s not pretty. They hurt him, hurt him something cruel, and now…now his head is stuffed up so that for him, pain –is- pleasure, he doesn’t understand the softer emotions…feelings…sensations. Compared to that, to the hell that his life must be, what are –my- problems? I helped him sleep at night, I helped him trust, a little…to learn to love, before he bolted and distanced himself from me. But I didn’t help him heal, I failed, but at least I TRIED.

Another, I’ve mentioned him before, his parents died or something…were out of the picture and he had to run with a gang, real mean bastards. They took his nephew (cousin, little brother, I’m ashamed that I cannot remember completely) and tortured him, the kid was SIX and they tortured him, broke his little fingers….you name it. Ugly, ugly thing to do to a child. And he, my friend, my love, he went after them. He was FIFTEEN, he shot one, beat the other with a piece of wood because the cops didn’t CARE. He was fifteen, fifteen and he had to kill. What stuck with him, all these years, was the guys eyes when he shot him, the pleading in them…not anything else, just the eyes. Compared to that knowledge, that…experience, what are –my- problems?

I hate myself, for making such a big deal over the way my mother treats me…I know so many people who’ve had it worse…who –have- it worse…so I try.

*sighs* What more do you want? At least I try.