Hey Mom, You're a Fucking Idiot

Hey mom...

I've never told you any of this before, but...

...I'm not quite sure how to feel about you anymore.

I used to take pride in how our family was in public; how well dad would take care of my brother - your son. You know, the one born with so many disabilities and who I am expected to care for when dad can't. Yeah.

The thing is, something last year really put our family dynamic into perspective, and it sure as fuck ain't pretty. It was something small, but it was enough to throw everything into question.

It was that day I talked to you on the phone about my (half-)sister's upcoming birthday. The one where you chided me that I better not be late (despite never giving anyone else flack about such a thing) and I responded that I'd probably be late for my own fucking funeral. You laughed and acknowledged that that was probably correct, and the way you did so made me realize something very big, important, and upsetting.

I've been working with moving goalposts all my life.

It's never mattered how much I took on as a kid to help take care of my brother, or when I took on two jobs when I didn't really need to; I have never measured up. And the simple reason for that is that no matter how well I have done, you've never been happy with it - it was never enough.

Even since I've moved out: you come into my boyfriend's home and berate us about miscellaneous boxes still sitting in the front room that we don't really use much; no matter what great deal I find on products I need/want, you always seem to exclaim that you could have gotten a better deal or, "why didn't you order through here, you could have gotten extra points for this". It's not how/where you would buy, or how you would do something, so of course that means I screwed up.

I don't even recall if you told me you were proud of me when I graduated high school. I know dad did. I think you wrote it in the card, but I never once recall you telling me you were proud of me. Ever.

Shit, I struggle to find times you were even pleased with me - or my decisions. The times you were, it was something along the lines of, "you look cute today" when I wore something you bought for me - and approved of - or, "you look like you've lost some weight" when, in fact, I had not. You only showed interest when I played into what you thought was acceptable, and only showed disdain for my own personal choices.

I don't think you see me for me - and you certainly don't support me; never really have. Did I have clothes and food and shelter? Sure. Anything else I needed - moral support and acceptance - was never given.

Lately I've started talking to new coworkers, and since the job is temporary, I've really been letting everything hang out. The general feedback when I discuss my upbringing is that, "that's really sad". And they still don't know the half of it.

Now I'll acknowledge that you worked hard to finance the family; with a son with a list of special needs came both a need to pay off huge medical bills and a need for one parent to care-give. Dad took on the care-giving role when daycare was too expensive, becoming a stay-at-home dad, while you worked in an office cubicle for most of your career to put the money in the bank.

But I can't deny that I've always noticed a disconnect between you and I and you and my brother.

Maybe the one with me stems from the fact that I was the one you thought about aborting - you might try to deny it and tell me I'm misremembering, but you told me this twice. Once when I was 14, the other when I was in my early 20s. You even laid it out like this, "I thought about aborting you, but your dad was so excited. Plus, I worked for a Catholic newspaper, and the fact that I was separated from my second husband and pregnant with a child from a man 16 years my junior out of wedlock was already risking my job. Oh, and I wanted you, of course!" Both times, laid out just like that. In that order.

As for my brother, I guess I can sympathize with the fact that you were killing him and he was killing you during his birth. He was 3 months premature, so tiny, and had so many issues. No one gave a life expectancy, but I suppose I can understand you maybe thinking he wouldn't survive long, so it was best not to become too attached.

The real kicker about it is how our half-sister sees you.

Every year on Mother's Day and your birthday, she posts a big thing about how lucky she is to have you - to have been raised by you.

I don't even recognize the woman she describes.

Sis grew up an only child until she was 13-14 and I was born, our brother right on my heels the next year. She got the attention of both you and her father. You paid for her first car and gave her the land that we would later get our firewood for for each winter - which she later sold.

To be honest, I'm not sure how her upbringing was; there's a disconnect with her nearly as vast as ours. Maybe even more, somehow. We've never shared our stories, and I don't think she's ever thought much of how different our upbringings have been from the stories I have heard.

I grew up with very little attention from either you or dad, it seemed. I learned early not to show when I was upset, not to cry, and not to disclose any of my thoughts and concerns to either of you; you would laugh like my concerns were nothing, and dad would get mad and yell if I started to cry. In his defense, he became a father at 19, a father to a son with special needs at 20, and lost his own father by 25; I don't think he had a great template for how to be a good dad in the emotional sense.

I try to make excuses for you; I really, really do.

But you'd get free rooms up at the casinos you frequented, and every weekend for years, you'd drag us all up there - an hour away from home - and I'd be left alone in the room with my next-to-nonverbal brother for hours, weekend after weekend. Sure, at the time I didn't mind much - but what the fuck did that do to me after years?

When we grew a little older, you'd let me stay home with my brother and I'd watch him for a day or two by myself; by then I was sick of getting dragged along every weekend and wanted to stay home where all my things were and enjoy the only time I was almost alone and could relax and do things that I wanted to, instead of just all the things you, dad, and teachers told me to. I still had to feed and change my brother, as well as medicate him with his anti-seizure medicine three times a day, but for a little while, I could enjoy the closest thing I'd get to some time alone.

I never told you about my insomnia (to be fair, I didn't know that's what it was when I was young, nor did I think it was unusual to have it). I even started waking up in the middle of the night on purpose to walk around in the dark in the lowest level of the house - again, just for some time to myself to think. I can't even tell you how many times I saw you walking down into the kitchen for a glass of water; you never noticed I was out of bed, never noticed I was right there. If you had just bothered to briefly look down the stairs.

I told you next to nothing. What was the point when you'd question every detail - every decision and thought? You never told me I was clever, or pretty. You'd only tell me that I didn't look good with my hair pulled back, or always mention the size of my stomach, never-mind that you were no beauty queen anymore yourself.

Yes, you paid for me to go to Europe for two weeks in middle school. I entirely expected you to say it wasn't feasible when I asked, and was gobsmacked when you said yes.

Maybe it was because everything else I had ever seemed to ask for was, "too expensive". Eventually I stopped asking for you to take me places because it never happened; too pricey, not enough time, "waste of time"...etc.

Just like movies. Movies were expensive. Dad didn't want to go and be around a bunch of people when he could stay cozy at home, plus it didn't make sense to you both to buy a ticket to take my brother when he could neither see nor understand the film - or might start acting out if he grew upset. These seemed understandable. So I stopped asking to go to movies.

I stopped asking to go anywhere, really, didn't I?

It became obvious that no one else would step up to take care of my brother; there was no help. Not from our sister. Not from other family. I realized young that he would always be my responsibility.

I resigned my fate to becoming an old maid; who in their right mind chooses to take on care-giving for someone like my brother willingly? Shit, I've been rejected by potential partners because of my brother. So I never thought I'd get a relationship that would last. I figured I'd be lucky to get a few short flings in my lifetime.

Not that I thought I'd live long.

The downside of being left alone with my brother all those times you went gambling was that I had a lot of time to think on how I felt. I was often angry. Why was I the one having to look after him? Why didn't I get to be a kid myself?

I was also often anxious and depressed: I wondered what I should - and could - do if someone broke in, as I'd have to literally drag my brother away from an intruder. I worried if you and dad would return safely, since the casinos were an hour away up the mountains and you didn't have cell phones. Especially in winter, on days you were later coming back than you said you'd be, I worried if you'd slipped off one of the twisting, icy roads.

Through insomnia and anxiety, I had to learn to self-soothe: I'd muffle my crying at night and fight hard to stop, and I had to think of every possible thing I'd have to do if you didn't come back safe from the mountains. It's not like you or dad taught me about that kind thing.

And yet...

That was the only time you and dad spent time together. I didn't want to take that away. Nor did I want you at home all the time - those nights were my only source of semi-freedom from everyone else's demands. Well, besides my brother's.

But I can't forgive the time you read my diary, or what followed. It doesn't matter what was going on - that was a huge breach of trust. I forgot for a little while - one of many things I didn't want to think on from that time in high school. But I remember, and I'm still angry about it. Some folks say I should forgive you; I think they don't have a clue what they're talking about and should shut the fuck up.

You read my diary. And once you found out I had been self-harming via cutting words like, "worthless" and "failure" into my skin, you did something I want to slap you for every single time I think about it.

You had me strip naked and show you my cuts.

Then you and dad threatened to send me to, "the loony bin".

I was suicidal.

I wanted to run away for years; that life of taking care of my brother since I was 7 and being left alone with those responsibilities several nights a week was torture. I never asked for it. It should not have been my fucking responsibility. I hated school - and my classmates. I had no one I could trust or turn to at all. I suffered insomnia and depression and anxiety weekly. By that point, I'd had my heart broken, had been groped in front of classmates by an older schoolmate - and next to nothing was done about it. And I had started a friends-with-benefits situation with a classmate in the neighborhood just to have the security of a guy after the groping incident.

Not that you knew about most of it. I doubt you ever will.

And that night you read my diary and had me strip naked to show you those cuts...

That was the closest I've ever been to actually acting on a lifetime of suicidal thoughts.

I lay in bed that night, muffling my crying, debating the best way to do it. I had a slew of medicines in my room, you might recall, as I spent my teen years locked in the room when I could, seeking more and more time to myself.

I was going to swallow a shit-ton of pills.

I knew it would have to be done correctly; in health class, I'd learned that those who tried to end their lives in such a way often didn't succeed because the body reacts and tries to expel the lethal dose.

I debated if that night was the best - I had a lot of unfinished, dark-themed stories that could be easily misunderstood without me there to explain the whys of those dark themes.

Ultimately, the reason I didn't attempt to kill myself that night - the reason I stayed - was for my baby brother. I hated you that night. So fucking much. I even hated dad, who you know I adore. But I knew if I took my life that night, there was no one who would care for my brother in the future left in the family. They'd be dead themselves, too weak to lift him as he grew into an adult, or would put him into a home, leaving his fate up to strangers.

I couldn't have that.

I stayed for the sake of my brother, and that alone. That is one thing I do wish I would tell you.

But you still told one of your casino friends about my diary and cutting. I know because the nosy cunt had the audacity to try to shame me for it the next time I went with you to stay in the casino hotel.

When I met my boyfriend over 7 years ago and moved out, I felt like I betrayed the family. We never had a discussion about it really. I especially felt like I abandoned my brother, despite my going over to help out anytime you asked. You repaid me by taking advantage of your teller position at the bank to look at my accounts when I tried to be a good partner and pay for half the cost of some new furniture for us. You're so goddamned nosy.

Since I was a child, you'd talk me out of the things I wanted to do. I wanted to be a paleontologist, but according to you and dad it, "didn't make enough money". Same with being a writer. Admittedly, writing has earned me squat thus far. But it's the principle of the thing.

Then I thought I'd try and become a massage therapist - something I could do while working on my writing skills and helping out with my brother. You took me to the school so I could ask questions and didn't say anything to hold me back...

...until I was only 1 or 2 paychecks shy of being able to afford the schooling in full.

And then, suddenly, you didn't think it was a good idea. I postponed it for over a year, until I quit my job and mentioned it again. This time, coincidentally, you didn't talk to me for a week. Could it have been that we just hardly saw each other at home at the time? Sure. But that stuck out to me.

You would put things in my head about how my best friend seemed to be taking advantage of me when I said I'd paid for a meal since she did all the driving. Later, you'd start doing this to me about my boyfriend. You know, the guy I've been with nearly 7 years and is open to taking on care-giving for your son with me when dad can't do it anymore.

And then...

And then there was my 30th birthday. August 27, 2021.

First you called to wish me happy birthday. Upon finding out that my friend was coming over and we were going to go to the liquor store as I was out of alcohol, you commented, "didn't I just buy you a bottle of Fireball?".

You know, the bottle you bought me three or four months prior, just before I spent one week with you, dad, and my brother traveling out of state to hold grandma's year-late celebration of life, then a week at my sister's house-sitting, before I was back at your house for half a week to help out and then spent another 3 weeks helping your sister pick corn and can food? Was I wrong to enjoy shots after such a stressful string of events away from my home and boyfriend? Meanwhile, my sister who is apparently near-perfect to you drinks how many bottles of wine in a month, and you never comment on that?

And then, you started bitching about rising COVID numbers when you came over. Moreover, bitching about how it was probably the fault of "illegals"; never-mind the fact that you refused to get vaccinated to protect you, dad, and my at-risk brother! And as a bank teller who sees hundreds of people in a day! Between the stress of never measuring up - and the resulting anxiety - and this little number, I was not at all surprised when my boyfriend told you you were a fucking idiot. But of course, instead of realizing that you hadn't done a damn thing to help prevent the rising COVID numbers yourself - shit, how many times did you visit the casinos in the midst of the pandemic? - you opted to take offense and speed off in a huff; how fucking mature of you.

I was going to let things cool down for a few weeks before I tried to reach out and smooth things over, but then my sister actually sent me a text - a rarity! Of course, she sided with you and thought my boyfriend owed you an apology.

Excuse the fuck outta both of you? Piss off!

And now here we are over nine months later, and we still haven't spoken. I only finally just reached out to dad; if not for his 50th birthday, I still might not have. But as his only fully verbal child, I felt obligated to at least reach out for his big 50th. It was good to hear baby brother, though; I miss him so much since things went to shit. I about cried when I heard him tapping on his favorite toy car in the background while I talked with dad.

I've reached out to a therapist in January; she says it will take about 2-3 years to undo and unlearn all the shit that's been fucking me up all my life.

I've had very little good to say about you, though I try to make excuses and defend your shit behavior. A breadwinner, you were. And are. I won't deny that.

A loving, supportive mother in the ways that I needed, you were not. It takes more than pantry goods and clothing to support your offspring. It takes more than showing up for public displays of "I'm a good mom, chaperoning the school field trip".

I don't think you have it in you to be the mom I needed - and need. I can't confide a damn thing to you; for one reason or another, I don't trust you with much knowledge about my life - or me.

I haven't forgotten how you all - you, dad, sis, and sis's family - fucking laughed at my concerns about COVID. Even after my sister's dad passed away from it, none of you did shit to protect yourselves or my brother.

Or how you exclaimed to a stranger that you and dad and my brother were planning on moving back out of state, after my boyfriend bought a house near you so I could help out easier, and then you didn't understand why I was so upset as you pulled the metaphorical rug out from under me. My dear sister even had the gall to tell me I couldn't be selfish and expect you you stay; as though she hasn't been selfish her entire damn life. She's never helped out with our brother and got to live her own life on her terms, yet I have sacrificed much of mine and wind up belittled by the family.

I don't know what I would have to do - what it would take - for any of you to acknowledge anything that I have done; or what you've done to me. You've never even apologized once for anything you've said or done to me. Not once. Not for one damn bit. You don't even acknowledge it - often dismiss it as a false memory or, "I have no idea what you're talking about".

Two years ago, I was prideful of our family.

One year ago, I started questioning why - at nearly 30 - I didn't seem to get any form of respect or acknowledgement.

Now...

I'll be questioning if anything you ever try to say to me or teach me is worth a damn thing, because I don't trust your judgement anymore.

I don't know what to think of you anymore.