When You Can’t See Beyond Yourself…

Sorry I’ve been remiss in posting here. I promised myself I’d only do so when I felt inspired. Blogging in lieu of therapy shouldn’t be an obligation, I decided, so I only post when something is really eating at me.

My daughter is going to be a year old on Monday.

Image Source: fraencko

As you can imagine, this brings up many feelings, joy and pride being the first and foremost on the list. But lingering there just beneath the surface are other emotions I’d rather not have to deal with, but there they are nonetheless.

Regret. Sadness. Anger. Resentment. 

I talked to my mom briefly a few days ago. She didn’t have much to say. Those who know me know she barely ever talks to me anymore. She tries to play nice but I can tell she’s sort of tired of trying. She’s aware I know she’s full of shit most of the time and that she can’t get away with her little games with me. So it’s best that she doesn’t talk to me, I suppose. Maybe she’s afraid I’d call her out on it?

In any case, we spoke for a few minutes because my dad was asleep and she picked up the phone. She asked how my daughter was in passing. Didn’t ask for details. Don’t grandmas want to know if their grandchildren are walking and talking yet? (She is.) But she didn’t even ask. She only had the breath to tell me how she isn’t feeling well (what’s new) and that she’s having such a hard time (cry me a river). She has insurance and won’t use it. If I was about 10 years younger, I’d scream and yell, beg and plead with her to go to the doctor. I don’t have it in me anymore. She wants to be sick? Go ahead and be sick. It’s not my problem.

She asked me how I was because that’s what you do when you have a conversation. I said I was okay. That we were working hard and barely paying the bills, but you know, we were hanging in there. Her response? “I sowwy.”

I shit you not.

She can’t even speak to me like a real fucking adult. She has to trivialize it. Make it cute. Because I don’t think she’s ever dealt with a real goddamned emotion in her entire adult life.

I read somewhere–probably in the comments on this blog–that hoarding must be a form of narcissism. Or at the very least, tied inextricably to narcissistic personality disorder. I believe it. My mom doesn’t have room in her brain for anything other than herself.

And you know what? It hurts! Whenever I hear people on TV talk about how having a child made them grow so much closer to their mothers, I want to cry. It hurts. She’s robbing me of that experience. My mother-in-law has stepped up and been massively supportive, but you know, nothing could replace that bond, that moment of understanding with my own mom. And I’ll never have that.

I guess what I’m trying to say is it’s not fair.

And I’m tired of getting upset and feeling tears brim at the corner of my eyes because of another person’s actions. When will I let go of it? When will I be set free from the madness?