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Not Quite Nellie

Part 1

By Guenneth SpeldrongPublished 3 years ago 29 min read

I had never been so nervous making dinner before. Two weeks I had planned what I was going to say: writing drafts, compiling charts, and asking literally everyone I knew to make sure what I was going to say was fair. I was very well prepared, but my hands couldn't stop shaking all the same.

I went over my plan again to calm myself down, and tried to stop myself from envisioning the worst.

I would make dinner, we would eat and watch one of her shows...then Jack and I would "lay down the law" with our finely tuned parenting plan. Dinner was ready about the time my daughter came home from work, and it felt like a sign.

The lemon chicken sadly did not turn out, but the curried rice and zucchini were pretty good. We sat, and even laughed a little with my daughter over silly things happening in her show.

I took a few deep breaths to center myself before I began the distinct displeasure of speaking with my 20-year-old about her responsibilities as an adult-AGAIN.

I was determined to make myself heard this time. Since she has a problem actually hearing what I say, we decided that I would write her a letter instead, then we could talk about it. Maybe, with a letter, she will actually understand my words.

After dinner I sent the letter to her over text (I will post this letter in a separate story). I told her to go, take her time, and read it all a couple of times. Then I went to go take a calming bath to give us both time.

I had not even started the water when I heard her yelling in the living room. I tried to stay out of it, and continued to take my bath. When the screaming continued unabated, I called my husband in to take refuge from the emotional torrent. He is disabled, and has just healed from both a rotator cuff surgery and a transplant from the year before. He doesn't need this kind of stress.

This reaction was, sadly, nothing new. We had become used to it over the past 15 years or so. It remains exhausting, regardless.

I ended up cutting my bath short. It was far from relaxing anyway, with us both huddled in the small bathroom, afraid of what hell awaited us outside. NO ONE relaxes when Lynn is angry. So, I got out, put on my big girl pants, and went to go talk to my kid. Surprise surprise, she hadn't bothered to read anything I wrote. That did not, however, stop her from being angry about this thing she didn't understand.

So, I gave her the bottom line: she needs to contribute to the household. Chores, bills, and basic human consideration for her ill parents. If she didn't want to do chores, she would have to pay us for the time we had to spend cleaning up after her. Since she makes more than twice my income, I thought it was more than fair to charge her roughly $5 and hour for my services as a maid. I also thought that being able to FINALLY get off of housing assistance and food stamps, after 21 YEARS of being so poor we had to rely on these programs, she would want to help us out a little bit so we can finally breathe again.

Boy, was I wrong.

My daughter told me NO. None of that would be happening. She wasn't going to pay us anything. She wasn't going to help with the bills. She wasn't going to clean up after herself. Her face was cold stone.

I was, of course, hurt and bewildered by this reaction. She had agreed, a month ago, to help out with some bills. In fact, she had seemed happy to help. Over the course of a month, however, she had shown no signs of following through with her promise. Shown no indication of contributing in any way.

I had to stay firm in the face of her wrath. We couldn't keep living like this. Jack had made so many sacrifices to his special diet he required to stay healthy. Neither of us had very good clothes, or anything really fun that was our own. ALL of our extra money, usually more than we had, went to support Lynn. She had nice clothes, a nice car, a great job, all the games and fun she could want, and even disposable income of her own on top of that. Jack and I had just about nothing.

We were just at the end of our rope.

I took a few more deep breaths, and told my daughter that, if she didn't like our bottom line, then she could go and stay with her grandfather.

She had a room there too, after all. She would be safe and comfortable. It was packed to the brim with everything she wanted, more clothes than she could ever wear, and just so much STUFF. Her room here was as well. Anytime I told her she couldn't have something, she would just ask my dad. Then she barely looked at the expensive things she was given. She refused to get rid of any of it, or clean either room. It was so stifling for everyone involved.

I needed a break from the screaming. She needed to go.

She refused to leave. She told us, in no uncertain terms, that she would stay. She would continue staying, as long as she wanted, and on her terms. We would follow HER rules, it seemed.

So, I decided I would leave. I would be the one to go to dad's house. I could sleep on his needlessly comfortable couch, or I could change the sheets on Lynn's gross bed and sleep there. I went to go pack some things, and encouraged my husband to do the same. He declined. I thought it was a bad decision, but it was his to make.

My daughter continued screaming and screaming and screaming. There was just no end.

She kept calling me a child, and saying other terrible things. I ignored her.

Then she grabbed my purse and stood by the door with it. She told me I would not be allowed to leave my own house. That she would take my purse to make sure I couldn't go anywhere (or apparently call anyone). And that she would take the car and go sleep in it to make even more sure I stayed.

Then she left.

I sighed. What was I supposed to say to that? I was being trapped in my house by a 20-year-old having a toddler fit, mad because I did not like her plan of being becoming a perpetual, unpaid servant who can never quit or leave.

Jack suggested I call the police about the purse and car. I did not want to do that to her. Plus, the car was technically my dad's, and he put my daughter's name on it to help her get some credit so her life would be easier. I could call about the purse, but it just seemed so drastic.

I didn't want to be that type of parent. I've had one or two of those, and I was pretty sure I wasn't going to stoop that low.

We talked about just calling an Lyft to go over to my dad's...but it seemed unnecessary now that she was gone. Plus, we were super poor.

Still, we worried about her. Sleeping in the car was not a safe or sane decision, and driving while she was in this frenzied state was even less safe.

So, Jack called her. He insisted she bring my purse and the car back. I yelled that she needs to come home RIGHT NOW.

She agreed to return my wallet, but not my keys or the car. Then she hung up.

I eventually heard her coming up the stairs. I was anxious; I was scared; I was nervous; I was desperately trying to not panic; I was angry. She tried to leave my keyless purse at the top of the stairs and run back to the car. My mothering instinct took control- I could not allow her to drive upset OR sleep in the car, after all.

I reached out and put a restraining hand on the back of her head to stop her running away. She surprises me by flinging herself to the ground, and I hurt my back trying to make sure she isn't hurt, or accidently hurting her in some way. She starts screaming bloody murder. The neighbors notice; I wave at them and tell them it's ok. I figure they are used to her screaming outbursts.

I'm pretty sure I scared her, so I try to talk in even, less angry tones. I'm not sure how well I did, but I doubt that mattered. She never hears me anyway. Still I try, like a crazy person, because I love her.

I insist that she gives me back my purse. I told her she was acting crazy. That she needed to calm down.

My husband, trying to help in his own way, insists she gives him HER purse. We had NOT talked about that, but it was certainly not the time!

I tried to get her to stand up. I gave her a VERY gentle nudge to the door, telling her to get in the damn house. Jack follows after her.

I stood outside for what seemed like both 5 seconds and 5 hours, trying to decide if I REALLY, TRULY wanted to go in there. I mean, I know I didn't...but I was obligated.

I was still hoping to leave, and had almost convinced my stubborn husband to come with me. I brave the fray and head inside.

My daughter is standing over my sitting husband, screaming and demanding her things. I tell her to get away from the disabled man. She walks away, but then is right back in his face seconds later. So I walk over, and get between them. I want his to give her things back, too, but it's more important I keep Jack physically safe. So, I start walking slowly towards her, hands behind my back so she doesn't feel threatened, and gently push her away from him with my shoulder.

I insist again, louder this time, that she step away from her disabled father.

I do not think she will intentionally hurt him, but she could do so accidentally. Plus, the stress is NOT good for him...and he was clearly very confused and stressed.

She then gets in my face, screaming about how crazy I am. I just keep repeating that she needs to go to her room to calm down. NOW.

Finally, thankfully, she does. I sit down and try to breathe and think. That was a whole lot of crazy all at once. I worry if I can even leave her when she's in this state. I certainly can't leave Jack alone with her. Will the pets even be safe? Will she throw and break things again? If I leave, will she destroy the house? Will she hurt herself?

It was a no win situation.

I only have a minute to consider my options when she is out of her room again. She asks me if I have calmed down. I tell her no. A minute is not enough time, after all!

I ask her again if she is really, truly unwilling to help us out with either chores or finances, but she does not answer.

She wants to call the police.

She demands to call the police several times.

My husband shows no signs of giving back her phone. He's too stressed and can't think. I sigh again, and ask if she really, really wants to call the police.

She says YES.

I had found my phone on the bed earlier (so I guess she hadn't taken it like I thought), so I tell her fine, but I would not allow her to hold my phone. I dialed, and held it out to her. I guess I was hoping she would hang up, but she didn't.

She tells them I hurt her, and that she is scared.

Then she goes back to her room and shuts the door.

Since Jack is immune suppressed, he can't be around when the police come. She I get him to stand up and take him to the bedroom and set him up in there. I stay with him and try to calm him down a bit, and hopefully myself in the process.

Instead of calming down, I go into a depression and get up on my maudlin soap box, talking about how it's all ok because I am nothing and I don't matter. You know, normal stuff.

The police come. I shut my husband in the room, hold on to the dog's collar, and invite them in.

I direct the first officer directly to my daughters bedroom. I do not follow him. I try to recount the events of the past hour to the second officer. It isn't easy, because I have almost no clue at this point (writing this, I have the benefit of hindsight.). They ask me if I pulled my daughters hair, and I wasn't sure. If she said I did, I guess I must have? I have no memory of doing it, and was concerned I had accidently hurt her. The first officer comes out, and I ask him is Lynn is ok. he says she's fine. I am relieved. I give them the living room to talk over our stories. I try to calm down both Jack and the dog. They are both pretty upset.

I hear one officer leave, so I come out to see if I can be of any further help. I feel so bad these poor guys had to come out for such a stupid reason. It's so embarrassing.

The remaining officer explains to me in kind tones that my daughter has claimed I assaulted her, and that claims of assault are an automatic arrest. I am shocked, and go on autopilot. My brain simply exists the building.

I go in and tell Jack I am being arrested. I remind him of his pills, and to be safe and take care of himself. I put on my shoes with no socks, and grab a random coat. I yell to Lynn that I love her, and I hear her crying in response. I walk out into the living room, and the officer tells me he has to cuff me, but it can wait until I am safely down the stairs and to his car. I am very grateful, since I doubt I could walk down the stairs in cuffs.

I get to the squad car, and he shows great kindness again by using two pairs of cuffs. The pain is still bordering unbearable, however, and I am starting to have a panic attack. The other officer takes off my mask, which is soaked with tears (I don't remember crying, just the wet mask) when I ask him to, and they roll down the window.

The pain brings my brain back slowly. I try to take deep breaths out the open window. It is so cramped back there with the covid shield up, and my arms are hurting more and more by the second.

The kind officer chats with me, and that helps distract from the panic and the pain. It helps immeasurably. My lips are tingling and my head is spinning and throbbing. I am trying hard not to pass out from the pain, and hearing about his move from SLC and his family helps me focus on something else.

Some kids in a car see me and laugh. I didn't blame them. I am a fat old mother with a shawl for a coat. Yeah, I guess I grabbed a shawl on my way out.

We pull into the jail, and I feel the panic coming back. I'm locked in. I can't escape.

I have to be able to escape.

I have to be able to escape.

I have to be able to escape.

I almost fall getting out of the car. I am having trouble walking. A kind lady officer catches me when I almost fall again.

I hear myself joking and being friendly with the officers. I guess that's my automatic response when I panic.

The jail nurse takes my blood pressure. It is astronomically high, something like 220/130.

Yeah. I hurt.

They send me to the hospital. Back in the car, I am in more pain than ever. I am having trouble being distracted by stories. I don't remember if we spoke.

When we arrived at the hospital, the officer was kind enough to remove the cuffs. We walked into the hospital together. I waited for the doctor.

As my pain slowly went away. I realized my knee was out of it's socket. I popped it back in. When the doctor came, I asked for some tape to keep it in place. He refused, but sadly. I think they thought I wanted the whole roll, because they said it would just be taken from me.

I sat and chatted with the officer more. He gave me some parenting advice, which began and ended with "your kid is an adult. Just let her sleep in the car next time". I agreed this was the best.

He spoke in great detail about his time as an officer in SLC. He said that, down there, they were given more rope to use their discretion regarding arrests- but here, in Washington State, he had to arrest a LOT of older mothers because their adult children called the police on them for "bogus" harassment charges. He sounded really tired of arresting old, sick mothers. I don't blame him. What a job.

He tried to get his superior officers to let me go to my father's for the night, but they refused. The law here is very clear. If someone says they have been assaulted, whether or not they were injured, or even regardless of injury or actual assault, it was an automatic arrest.

20-somethings were using this law to "punish" their parents for parenting them.

He said to write about it. Try to change this insane law. I hope to do just that.

(Please keep in mind that these are not exact quotes. I his actual verbatim words are not represented here)

The removal of the cuffs, the glass of water I was given, and the kind conversation lowered my blood pressure enough to go to prison...


It was past midnight at this point, and I was starting to feel the lack of my nighttime medications. When he put the cuffs back on me, however, my arms were pretty numb, so there was not a repeat of the high blood pressure.

My knee back in place, I was a lot less wobbly. Everything went "smoother" after that. I was patted down, finger printed, photographed, put in filthy bathroom, was told to strip and change into pants that were two sizes too small and a shirt that fit ok. I was told NOT to use the bathroom, and I agreed it was for the best after glancing at the toilet.

I was brought to the nurse again, and she took information about my health condition and medication. I told her I desperately needed my pills due to pain. She acted like she would give them to me, and I was very relieved. I was then put in t a filthy room with an even filthier bathroom. I had to pee so I just made a seat cover out of what was probably dirty toilet paper and used sanitizer since there was no soap.

Then I called Jack.

I focused more on him than I should have, but I was worried. I asked if Lynn was ok, and I guess she was sleeping comfortably. Jack is super worried about me, and I try my best to calm him down. He needs to take care of himself and sleep, or he will get very ill. We chat for a while, and while we talk about the events of the night, another middle aged lady joins me.

I get off the phone soon after, since I am sure she wants to use it too.

I assumed correctly.

The room is small, so I can't help but eavesdrop.

Turns out, she is here for the same reason I am.

I can't be sure if she did or did not actually assault her step-daughter, but I do know the fight was with her step-son over him giving his younger brother alcohol. The adult step-son called the police FOR his sister in order to get his step-mom arrested.

She was very hurt.

We talked about our brat kids a bit, and we both kept switching between being hurt by their actions and worried for their safety.

BOTH our kids were sleeping soundly at home, however, without a trip to the ER or even a doctors visit planned for the near future.

It seems our kids were both uninjured.

We were both very grateful and very upset about this as well.

I sat in that gross room for three hours. I did not receive my medication.

I was finally called to go to my cell. Not that I was at all excited to go.

I had to walk up four flights of stairs. Or three? Either way...ouchie.

They gave me a blanket roll on the way. It was welcome, but it made it harder to climb stairs.

I finally made it to room 37, and that heavy door slamming shut made me panic all over again.

I tried to focus on anything else, or on the brown stains on the wall.

There were 285 bricks.

I found a sheep, a goblin warrior woman, and a scene from Spirited away in the dirt on the walls.

I was the only one there, which was good news. I immediately and thoroughly washed my hands. I was terrified of catching covid, since I had only received one shot so far.

I was also worried about catching just about everything else. Could I even go home now? Would I be a danger to Jack?

I set up 'shop ' on the lower bunk of three. I didn't think I could get to the others. I tried in vain to find a comfortable position, rolling up one of the blankets into a rough sort of pillow. I looked through my other supplies, and found more soap, tooth paste and brush, a small towel, and a flyer on what to do if a guard rapes me.

I couldn't stop crying. My head hurt. I still had no pills, and understood that I would not be receiving them. I hurt everywhere.

The other mother who I met earlier joined me in my cell later. There were no clocks, so I do not know how long I was alone. We took turns talking, then we would fall silent and cry. My cell mate cried so hard she threw up. She said she had drank a little that night, and that plus being upset made her ill. I wondered again how real her story was, but I still listen and gave comfort where I could.

It was a long, brutal night. I couldn't sleep a wink. The lights wouldn't turn off. The guards were crazy loud. It alternated from way too hot to way too cold. I was despondent and terrified. I couldn't get out. I was trapped, trapped, trapped. I cried without stopping all night. I watched the window, waiting for the morning light. I became convinced that it wasn't a window after all. I started seeing things move, but they were stationary. I hurt so much everywhere in every way. I kept getting up and walking from one side of the cell to another, trying to take 6 steps each way to comfort myself. My pants were cutting off circulation, but I couldn't take them off.

Finally, I heard the guards start to give out breakfast. I tried to guess what time it was, and my 'cellie' and I decided it was 6.

Only FOUR more hours till my appointment with the judge!

I couldn't eat my breakfast. I was too ill.

I sat, stood, walked around, talked, and cried for what seemed like a whole day. Still, no one came. I NEEDED TO LEAVE! I knew anything could happen but I was told that, since this was my first offense, they would most likely release me on my own recognizance.

There was not other option but to put my hope in that.

I thought many times about the poor people who had to stay here for weeks/months/years. The longer I stayed, the less this punishment made sense for ANY crime save rape, murder, or pedophilia. Being trapped in here can, and most likely does, make everything worse. How does this torture help ANYONE get into the right mindset to follow the laws? It most certainly makes you insane, if you weren't already. The lack of sleep, comfort, feelings of safety, even not being told the time will drive anyone mad.

I could imagine doing something desperate to escape. I started looking for sharp pieces of the bed to cut myself on, and used my nails when I found none.

I was not well.

Finally, the guard came to get me for my court appointment.

It was only 10:10.


They brought me down with two other ladies. We went down an elevator into a refrigerated hallway. Then they put us in the filthiest room I had ever seen (as a homeless person, I saw my fair share of filth, too).

My new cell mates were a young lady who was clearly on drugs, and an older lady covered in bruises and possible burns. The young lady immediately stripped naked and took a bath in the sink. She was very concerned with how smelly she was (which was pretty smelly). She would wipe her genitals repeatedly, then actually eat the toilet paper she wiped with. After about 30 minutes of this, she went to the door, still mostly naked, and asked for pen and paper. She was refused. Then she talked to the door for a little while. She then took another sink bath, and stayed fully naked for the remainder of our stay there. She then asked us to look at her clitoris and tell us if it looked weird. I told her it was fine. I was pretty sure she was schizophrenic, and unstable, so I did what I could to keep her calm. She then masturbated for what seemed like an hour, all while talking to a guy we couldn't see.

Thankfully, she didn't touch either of us.

She became more agitated as the hours passed. She told us she just had a miscarriage and was a prostitute addicted to heroin. She told us she attacked her mother. I was both scared of and sorry for her.

As the young lady was distracted by another conversation with the door, I spoke to the older lady a little. She said she did not remember what happened to get her in here. She said she may have beaten her husband, or at least that was why she was arrested. She was terrified. Her bruises looked like defensive wounds to me, and she had what looked like finger prints imbedded in both of her arms. I did not know what happened to her either, but I was sure she did not deserve those bruises and burns and told her so. She thanked me in a small voice. We both went back to quietly avoiding the addict, and I made sure to stay between them as much as possible.

We were in that room 2 hours, but it seemed like 2 days. I was so glad to not be trapped in that filthy room with a possibly explosive insane drug addict. We were all let into a small room with long benches facing a table, chair, phone, and television. The latter seemed to be stuck on court TV. I hate court TV...but I knew it could be worse.

There were 3 men there, finishing up their court case. We all sat far away from them.

The men were all being accused of harassment. None of them were first time offenders. All of them were being released. NONE of them were sorry for harassing women. ALL of them were sure THEY were the victims.

I couldn't help but be reminded of Malory's Arthur as we sat there, in order of age. If any of you have read it, I seem to remember a scene where Guenever (Guinevere) was sitting in between two women in her garden. I believe one was Morgan Le Fay, and the other might have been Gawain's wife? Either way, the point of the scene was how Guenever sat on a moral precipice. She was right smack in the middle of good and evil, being influenced by both. She was the rarely seen "gray ideal woman" in a world that separated women into either black or white, Madonna or whore. Also in Malory, there was another scene of three women sitting on a bench, waiting for 3 knights to lead down different paths; one old, one middle aged, and one young.

Except this story was written by Poe, not the idealistic Malory. We were three women, all there because of how the outside world treated us, victims of our environments, waiting for a group of men to decide what happens to us.

It was not pleasant, but it was exactly what I expected it to be.

The young lady would not stop talking and being disruptive, so she was brought back to the hallway to wait. The older woman was called up first.

Her husband had told the police that he came home, done nothing out of the ordinary, said hi to his wife, and she suddenly flew into a rage for absolutely no reason. She attacked him, and tried to beat him up. He had no choice but to restrain her. Then, she apparently hit HERSELF in the head with a vase. The burns were not mentioned.

She sat there silently, mumbling answers in her small voice whenever the judge asked her a direct question. She was released on her own recognizance.

I was next. I went up, confirmed who I was, agreed I heard my rights (which were not given by the arresting officer but by the judge in the court room), and then listened to the charges.

My daughter's story was that she tried to leave the house but I wouldn't let her. She had taken my purse only by accident. That I pulled her hair, threw her to the ground, then pulled her into the house by her hair.

I couldn't believe my ears. I was here, in jail, and she was out there lying to...I don't know. Make herself look blameless? Justify her actions? Get sympathy? I would have still (probably) been arrested if she had told the truth. The lies seemed completely unnecessary. I DID put my hands on her, after all. I DID scare her. That's enough to use the law to punish me. Why lie!?

I was exhausted, hungry, nauseated, stressed, anxious, terrified, and in a great deal of pain...but the words of my daughter spoken by the judge hurt me more than anything else.

I was given a court date and sent to wait next to the Crone archetype. I was being released on my own recognizance. I should have been happy, but I couldn't manage that emotion just then.

I was too much in shock to fully understand the maiden's story. I do know she was in a car with her mother when she attacked her, that's about it.

None of us were given a chance to speak or defend ourselves. Lawyers we had never met spoke for us.

All 3 of us would be free to go.

When I arrived back at good ol' #37, I managed to muster some happiness to see the last of that dismal place. The guards seemed happy for me as well. They gave me a lunch that smelled amazing, but I couldn't eat it. I was still too upset. No one gave me a time frame as to WHEN I would actually be released, so I was incredibly stressed. I was afraid to ask because the guards may retaliate or yell at me.

So I 'patiently' waited to be released. My cell mate left around 1:30 or so for her own court appointment, so I took the opportunity to straight up cry for my daddy. Toddler style. I needed out. I didn't know how much longer I could last. I sobbed and sobbed; my head was a melon. I cleaned up a little using my towel, because I had to have something to do.

Some kind guard actually left the cell door open a crack. It was wonderful. I was no longer consumed with the fear of being trapped. I mean, I still was, but this slight symbol of freedom was enough to calm me down a little bit.

My cell mate came back and told me the time, as I told her. There is something comforting about knowing what time it is.

It's the small things...

At about 2:30 I was told I was being released. I said goodbye and good luck to my cell mate, who would be released a little later. We both hoped we would never see each other again, and laughed. I was brought down to wait in the hall with the Crone and the Maiden, plus a young tough homeless girl. The guards lectured me to not put my hands on anyone ever again.

I hate touching, so I didn't plan to do it.

I had learned my lesson. Never touch my daughter.

We were all ushered into that first gross bathroom I was told to strip in when I first arrived. All 4 of us. We awaited instructions.

The young addict, of course, stripped as soon as the door closed; despite the fact that a male guard was standing right there talking to us. He was visibly upset, and walked away. A female guard replaced him and yelled at the girl for upsetting "the boy scout".

We all had to change together in that small bathroom. Addict girl hugged me, but I was thankfully wearing clothes by then. They brought the drug addict girl out first, leaving me with the street punk to chat with. She was upset and scared, but hiding it well. When they finally let us out, the first girl was gone. I hoped they kept her in order to see a psychiatrist. Regardless, she had no where to go but straight back to her pimp, and was not doing well physically or emotionally. Being released may not have been the best choice for her...but neither was prison.

I was finally free. They handed me my phone and wallet, then released me into an arctic wasteland. It was 3:15.

I was too stiff and sore to put on my coat. I just couldn't manage it.

I was TOO SORE to put on a SHAWL.

It was wonderful to be out, despite the icy wind cutting me apart. I called my husband and walked to were he could find me. Neither of us knew where I would come out. It took him a while to find me. I was pretty grumpy with him, and I felt terrible about that, but I was too tired to stop.

When Jack finally showed up, I got in the back seat. I was worried I would give him some kind of illness or infection. I felt like a walking petri dish. The last thing we needed right now was a trip to the hospital!

I told Jack I didn't want to talk about it, and reminded him that I only had until 4 to go get my 2nd covid shot, which was due that very day. It was all I could think of.

It wasn't long before I broke down, and let out the past 22 hours of pain and fear and sadness. I knew I scared Jack, as I was screaming like a dying bison. I begged to die. I needed to die. I screamed it all out, until I was too tired to scream anymore. Then I went in to get my shot. I didn't see the point in getting one anymore, but an appointment is an appointment is an appointment.

I was starving and drained on my was back home. And filthy. My husband sent me upstairs, where I immediately got in the shower while he went to go get me my favorite veggie burrito from Senior Froggies and my favorite special order pink sauce with linguini from Italian Express (thankfully it was just one stop). He even added a large RC cola.

I ate my food in bed. I never do that. Then I went to sleep until 7. I went to the living room and Jack put on Stargate for me. He knows shows I have watched before (and liked) comfort me. I tried to feel normal even though I knew I would never feel normal again.

I've done a lot of thinking since then. About a lot of things. One thing that I couldn't get out of my mind was WHY. We give these children life. We love them, keep them safe, teach them. We give them our time and money and energy. We give them the best years of our lives.

Then they stab you right in the heart.

It used to be that kids moved out at 18. It was expected. They made their own lives, then came back to take care of you when you were ill (if you're lucky, they'll put you in a GOOD home and visit you). Now, they don't leave. I realize the main reason is the economy our parents and grandparents destroyed...but there is no reason I can see for the cruelty these kids show in the face of our kindness and understanding. They stay and continue demanding more and more and more while giving less and less and less. When we try to stand up for ourselves, or are pushed past our limits, all they have to do is call the police and lie. We get horribly punished while they sleep comfortably in their beds.

Why is there a law that demands the incarceration of people who inflict ZERO damage to another person? Or even just very minor damage? If the "abuse" these adult children suffer is so terrible that their parents need to be arrested, shouldn't they have to prove injury first?

What's also frustrating about this law is, if she were 17, what I did would have been completely legal. Why in the HELL do grown a** children get protection, but not ACTUAL CHILDREN!?

Why are we expecting police officers to spend their time and our tax money arresting crying middle aged women who just need a break from their perpetual servanthood?

I was held captive in my own home and screamed at for hours. I was put through hell: agonizing, draining, and horrible. All because my daughter believes it is MY job to cook, clean, and pay her way until the day I die. If I won't, or can't, she punishes me. For disliking this, I am put in JAIL and will most likely have a record for life.

Either way, it's a life sentence.

Is it so wrong to look forward to my own life, finding things I like to do? Is it so wrong to want to do something, anything, other than cook and clean for a fully capable adult who does not even appreciate me? It was difficult enough growing the courage needed to stand up to my daughter and insist on a life I can enjoy as well, without having to worry about being ARRESTED.

While I was crying in my cell, I was told my daughter was laughing with friends and enjoying pizza my dad bought for her. My friends were texting me, asking why I called the police on MYSELF (because she told people I did that). They asked me why I forced her to stay. Why I hurt her. They told me I wasn't safe to be around.

Past me would have just let the lie pass, or tried to quietly tell the truth without embarrassing my daughter. Current me knew, however, that this was a big part of how we got here. I was always covering for her, letting her lie to people about me so she could save face.

At least half of the people I know think I won't let her do anything fun, when, in reality, she just tells people that so that she doesn't have to let them know she would rather stay home.



Because I don't think I matter. At all.

And because I love my daughter, and wanted her to feel safe and comfortable.

But also because she gets very, very upset with me when I tell the truth.

This time, though, I did not let it slide. I told everyone the truth. Some believed me, others didn't. Sadly, my best friend was in the latter group.

I was glad my daughter had another person to protect her and help her with her upcoming challenges...but I needed a friend too.

I had Jack, so I guess it was ok.

I just no longer saw the need to protect and lie for someone who clearly didn't give a f**k about me.

She just DOESN'T CARE about me.

That s**t hurts.


About the Creator

Guenneth Speldrong

Hello there. I write things. Sometimes good things. Mostly, I write to find myself. If I can entertain you in the process, then that's just the derivative icing on the proverbial cake!

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