Once More, with Feeling

Sigh. Here we go again.

I love my mom. I do. I don't want to dishonor her. I don't. But my closet isn't big enough for skeletons. If you think it's improper for a person to vent frustration with dysfunctional family stuff, stop reading this post. Because I just have to say. It really sucks.

It really sucks when she's kind and amiable for a few months, and I start to relax, enjoy having a mom, talk to her. And then. I wake up to 3 missed calls and 4 voicemails by 6 on a Saturday morning, all insisting that I "take responsibility" for the "alcoholic dysfunction" in our family. What does that mean? Your guess is as good as mine. I'm just glad I'm not 12 anymore. Because dude. When your mother randomly morphs into a ferocious wild beast overnight, it's frightening when you're 12.

Now, it's just disappointing. Bitterly disappointing. Another 8–12 months of vitriol, verbal abuse, rejection, disdain. Phone calls at 12 am and 4 am. Nasty voice mails galore. Maybe a broken phone or two, launched across the room and shattered on the wall. Accusations, manipulations, delusions, guilt trips. Guilt trips that work. Guilt, guilt, guilt.

And the worst part? She will be engulfed in excruciating darkness, and she will suffer. And I will take that suffering in, and hold it inside, and it will gnaw at my heart, because she's my mother, the only mother I have, and I love her.

I'm tired, friends. Three decades of this: a few months of having my mommy, and a year or so of dodging the monster that descends on her.

So this morning, in the dark, in the security of my bed, in my home, with my husband, I shed my tears. My frustrated tears, my angry tears, my wistful tears, my exhausted tears. My old, familiar tears.

And then I got out of bed. Drank tea. Did some reading and writing. Spent a few hours with friends in the sunshine. Ignored lots of calls, deleted lots of voice mails. Settled in, hunkered down. Reminded myself that this too will pass. Again.