Mom, first let me start off by saying that you have to be one of the most stupidest people I have ever met. The smallest things set you off: an open door, a tone of voice, a wet sponge that you won’t bother to squeeze dry yourself. Let’s get one thing straight here, I have things you don’t like about me, and you have things that I don’t like about you. We can’t talk each other out of it, because neither of us are in a position to give advice, just receive them.
I honestly can’t understand how we’re supposeed to connect. We’re both lazy, I hate it, not just because it’s a “deadly sin” but because we actually have something in common. You are one of the most base people I have ever met. However, the sad fact is, we’re both lazy, and I acknowledge that fact. We’re also both stubborn, I acknowledge that too. What I can’t understand, is where the fuck do you get off trying to tell me what to do? You’re fat, you’re 59, you don’t exercise, okay, I get it, but that shouldn’t stop you from doing SIMPLE TASKS. Oh, you want me to do this because you want to teach me a lesson, FUCK YOU MOM! Suck my dick, ride it like a fucking horse and then please, for my sake, chop it off, burn it, and feed it to the crocodiles, ’cause I don’t want it no more!
Mom, you’ve lost the right to tell me what to do when you got in that car accident, when you got freaking dementia. The only reason I went along with what you said was because, firstly, you’re my mom, I have to respect you in SOME way. Not only that, but also I had a choice. I could either do what you said, or get stuck in a pointless argument that would not only last for hours, but would leave the both of us frustrated and aggravated. I hate arguing with you! You always have to talk over me and have the final say, because “I’m an adult! I am your mother!” I got dementia! I can’t do this! I can’t do that! Excuse after excuse!
The worst part is, I know you have dementia, I know there’s something wrong with you, yet for some reason, I keep having to act like your brain still works somehow! That you can comprehend at least a little bit of what I’m saying, and that some of the things you do make no freaking sense at all! I don’t know why I keep doing this! I know it won’t get through, and I know you won’t listen, and if I get upset at you, I’m either gonna have to shut up or put myself through pointless torture.
Frankly, I’m not sure which of us is worse. I know you’re pretty terrible in some ways. Content in sleeping in your own filth. Either refusing, or forgetting to bathe and wash your clothes. Wanting to hang on to old food, even though it’s way past it’s expiration date, and has freaking mold and who knows what else growing on it!
But I, have got to be the freaking stupidest kid alive if I believe that I can get through to you and have the both of us have a calm, rational talk like normal people do! You’re a kid, and that’s probably never going to change.
What can change, is how I handle the situation.
I can get a job, clean up your home, help pay your bills, and pay your food. Show you that I’m the one in charge. But, who knows, maybe you’ll still fight against me too. I remember when we lived with Tia at her home after Hurricane Ike, and about six months after we came there, Tia decided she didn’t want you there anymore, YOU drove HER crazy!
Ugh. Look, I know there are certain things that we want a certain way. But you know what, if you want to do that, keep it to yourself. Keep it in your room, that’s the only place I’m not gonna touch. Everything else, is mine! If you can’t take care of your home, I’ll do it! I’ll even sell it for parts if I have to! Yes, I’m aware that’s not possible, but point is, the only thing you’re capable of, is eating, sleeping and pooping. You won’t do anything else, and who knows, because of your dementia, maybe you can’t do anything else. Because of this, it just makes sense that I need to teach myself to stand up, to work, to do things that are important to my life and yours. I need to help take care of you, and take care of myself, in other words.
Mom. I don’t respect you. I care about you, sure, but I don’t respect you. The only meaning you seem to have for me is the title that you possess: Mother. You’re my mother, you’ve been there since birth, so by definition, since you haven’t tried to beat me, rape me, or kill me, I have to care about you, I have to do something.
I can’t talk to you, because every conversation we have is pointless. They have no meaning. They go nowhere. So now I’m taking this to the internet because I need to freaking vent before I explode and end up doing something I regret.
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Frustration
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