That Selfish Bitch of a Daughter

My relationship with my mom was far from perfect.

I tend to repaint things with brighter colors, just like I did with my marriage, which was never a beautiful union of two souls who were in love. I wanted to believe that I was happy, but in reality, I was far from it. No, I was fucking miserable and trapped like a tiger in a cage.

But I didn’t want to come clean and throw away my fake canvas.

My mother suffered from anxiety and other fun mental health conditions that were never truly diagnosed and treated. Her generation didn’t talk of such things, which was probably why I was secretly shuffled off to therapists at an early age when my parents noticed I wasn’t quite right and didn’t fit in with the other kiddos.

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After I had my own daughter, she micromanaged my life. I mostly followed her advice and opinions, although many times I would disregard what she told me. She wasn’t always right, of course. But if I said no, she’d tell me that I was being stupid.

I felt guilty for being depressed, anxious and suicidal, especially these last few years. I tried to keep it from her, because if I ever had a weak moment and said anything, she’d tell me that she was just too tired to deal with it anymore.

She made me cry in the ER the Saturday evening before she died that Monday morning. She practically growled at me after I had foolishly said that after they “fixed” her (we still thought at that time that she’d be alright) she needed to allow me to start visiting her.

“I like to be alone! That’s the way I like it!”

I ran from the room and my boyfriend followed me outside. Once I got myself calmed down, I went back and she looked at me curiously. My aunt whispered and said not to cry in front of her.

I was being that selfish bitch of a daughter again. I lowered my head, ashamed.

Why had she pushed me away while she was sick?

Why had she snarled at me?

I’m sickened with myself for feeling an odd sense of freedom and (still) relief that she’s gone on. But I miss her, love her and continue to wait for a phone call that’ll never happen.

I’m a jumbled up mess.

I’ve always been the black sheep of the family, but now I might as well order a T-shirt that says exactly that on Amazon.

There are moments when I wish I had never been born.

A Little Story

It’s rare for me nowadays to have much time to myself, but when it does happen, being alone with my own thoughts is either therapeutic or a slowly unfolding disaster, there is no in-between.

So here’s a little story:

At midnight on New Years Eve Day, my home flooded due to the electric company digging directly into a main water pipe. Nice job, guys.

Chaos ensued. My 26-year-old neighbor/son I never knew I wanted was a fucking lifesaver. He held me together, he talked me down, he spent $70 at Wal-Mart to buy a 6 gallon wet vac that didn’t even come close to keeping up with the amount of liquid rushing into my living room. We all finally gave up the fight. I had my 21-year-old daughter take our two dogs up to her room at 3am and I slept on my neighbors couch (ah, because of that fear of mine of being alone).

My boyfriend came over after reading my slew of messages and the photos that I had sent to him. He went to take a gander at my house and then came back over to me. He had tears in his eyes. He was quite sad for ME.

For me. He was crying for me, what the fuck? I am so not used to any man giving much of a shit about anything terrible that happens to me. I hugged him tight, I let him help me. I even somehow managed to stay awake to usher in 2019 with him. He fed me Taco Bell.

I slept 3 hours out of 48. Damn, I was exhausted, but so grateful for all of the help I received cleaning up the carnage.

But alas, I woke up at 4pm New Years Day so depressed and dare I say thinking about suicide again. I am so tired of that fucker, sincerely. I mean, for fuck sake already, give it a rest, brain chemicals.

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My daughter took me out to dinner and insisted that I order an alcoholic beverage.

The utility director came to my house yesterday to personally hand me a check for $5,500.00. I lost my dryer, my dishwasher, all of my living room carpet, a bookcase, a throw-rug, a few blankets and towels.

And to compensate me for what he called an “inconvenience fee.”

More like a 72 hour panic attack, dude.

It’s traumatic watching water (thankfully not sewer water) filling your home and coming at you like a wrecking ball. The money is nice and all (I am still in a bit of shock over having that sort of cash in my checking account) but to be honest, I am not even sure where to start.

A dryer is important. That is first, I don’t want to run out of underwear.

I suck at making decisions, I am also a master at procrastination. I suppose that it’ll all come out in the wash somehow.

God & Company

I believe in God. The Universe. My angels.

I feel my deceased father around me, even 32 years later. I talk to him periodically.

I have faith.

Ain’t no man or men that can change the shape my soul is in. – Avett Brothers

But I still have no idea what the fucking point of all of this is.

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Why does my brain want me to self-destruct? The thoughts that percolate in there are dark sometimes, my virtual friends.

As my mom would say about me, I don’t handle stress well. This is true. What also is true, my entire family knows that I’m a bit off my wheel.

“Crazy Aunt Abbey.”

Yep. And honestly, as much as I hate to admit it, I am.

Might as well own up to that shit, am I right?

I pray to God & Company to assist me in this life, to help me to stick around and not swallow a cocktail of medications or hang myself from a nice oak tree in the park. I really don’t want to go, but fuck my brain when it starts going in that direction.

I am used to those thoughts, that I am weak and not worth much to anyone. It’s true that under stress, I crack like an old coffee mug. I’ve always been rather Eeyore-like, I hide it behind my sense of humor. I am not the only person who does that, it’s a survival tactic. It’s always worked for me, everybody loves a clown.

A sad clown, a fake-ass funny, happy fucking clown.

I pray with tearful eyes, please God, help me stay strong.

Help me stay alive.

We Must Confront Our Bullshit

It’s been over a year now since it’s been just my daughter and our two dogs living under one roof together. I fought for almost two months to get my cheater husband to move out. He didn’t want to leave (nowhere to go, he said) and holy fuck, it was such an awkward and extremely stressful time in my life.

Actually, he was the bringer of stress and chaos, drama and bullshit, for many years. I put up with all of it because of 3 main reasons:

  1. He was the love of my life, wasn’t he?
  2. I’d invested so many years of my life to the relationship.
  3. I became complacent.

The level of stress in my life has gone down considerably since he’s been gone. That isn’t to say that I don’t continue to have stress, because that’s just a part of life.

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Ah, knowing when to stay or go. It’s different for everyone, I’d reckon.

I wish that I had kicked his ass out long before I did, but there’s no such thing as a time machine. If so, I’d have one in my bedroom.

He left behind tons of memories (good and awful) and I’m still in the process of sifting through them, one by one. Some people tell me to just forget about him, but I know that if I don’t allow myself to deal with these thoughts and emotions, I will never heal.

Um, I want to heal.

I will not do what I did the first time around when I left my daughters father and then proceeded to hit the floor running. That was part of the recipe for my 2011 mental breakdown.

We must confront our bullshit or else we’ll continue to step in it.

Abbey  11/29/18

Ring, Damn It

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I’m sitting here waiting for my boyfriend of 5 months to call me, like he always does after he gets off from work. His hours vary, so I just go about my business with an ear out for his special ringtone that I’ve assigned to him.

But as the minutes tick by, I start to get anxious, just like I did when I was a young girl, waiting for my dad to come home from his weekly Tuesday evening out. He (now deceased over 30 years) was the king of introverts and loved his alone time. He’d even go to movies all by himself, which I admire greatly.

The anxiety? Yeah, that stuff runs in my veins.

Maybe today is the day that my boyfriend dumps me, I start to think. Or else he got hurt while cutting tomatoes or something like that. My mind is a hatchery for negative thought eggs that smell like sulfur when they crack open.

Being in a new relationship after being cheated on and emotionally manipulated, abused and used for 15 years…let’s just say that my baggage is heavy and my self-esteem is as delicate as a house of cards, my mental health is teetering.

There’s a woman screaming in my neighborhood, so come read my blog!

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Starting this blog is incredibly necessary for the continuation of my healing from a lifetime of traumas that continue like fucking hell on toast to hold me back from living my best life.

Wow, that does look like a real sentence…damn, Abbey.

Not bad.

Within this space I will lay down, with sincerity and truth, all of my worst memories.

It might come in spurts or like an avalanche, I cannot promise you a post a day, also not in chronological order. I can however promise to be real.

We are made from our past, slowly molding into the people that we are right at this moment. If you hadn’t met that one person and gone to that party, or had that emotional gutter punch to an already upset stomach that aches day and night.

My mother cannot shit. I mean this sincerely. This issue has plagued her for going on 5 years and she’s slowly starving to death. She tries so hard, my God she tries, I am suffering watching her weaken before my eyes and holy fuck she’s going to die pretty soon and all of us who love her has to watch.

Does anyone else feel this way, or like me, afraid to bring it up least we all face the music?

People are afraid of the truth.

I need a safe place…cause I have a bunch and they are screaming at me.

Abbey Normal 10/31/2018

I’m Abby & I’m Not Normal

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It’s that sound of my roommate snoring that makes me want to take my pillow and push it up against her innocently sleeping face, but I don’t move from my perch on my own cheap mattress pad. If being locked up in a modern-day asylum for the crazies is beyond dreadful, imagine how bad being put away in a woman’s only prison for murder would be.

I just stare at the ceiling, listening to her nose whistling, in and out, my eyes closed. The smell of her is pungent and is almost comforting in a sick way, but then again, I am sick.

I shouldn’t be so cruel to the poor woman, she’s more alone in this world than even I am, but I just cannot find any empathy for her. She follows me around the place like a scared puppy dog and instead of allowing her the refuge that my kindness would give her, instead I scowl and give her looks of evilness.

Leave me the mother fuck alone, you nutcase bitch!!!

I am also a nutcase bitch and I have nothing left for anyone, especially not you.


My beloved, the man who I’ve put all of my love into for years, has betrayed me. I want to tell everyone inside this dank building, where the food is tasteless and the hours crawl by slower than the baby ants carrying cracker crumbs back from the Sunday church picnic.

Listen, I know that he doesn’t love me anymore, that he doesn’t want me! I have driven him away with my mental illnesses, by my not being a normal girl, not giving him enough blow-jobs and letting him cum on my titties! As we speak, he’s out there fucking another woman, I just know it.

I don’t have proof, but I know that something inside of him has switched from caring about what happens to Abby to only caring about his cock.

I swallow back my tears and take my medications like the good little puppet that I am. If I lose my sanity in this God forsaken place, they’ll keep me in here forever. I smile falsely when the shrinks ask me how I’m feeling. Oh, just fine doctor, I am feeling as stable and as normal as I can given that my entire life is going to fucking hell in the same garbage can where I vomited up all of those pills.

I failed at killing myself, they let me down just like my old man has.


The newest resident of the crazy-barn wants me to braid her dirty, disgusting hair and since she seems the type that would kick my ass if I didn’t follow her orders, I comply without complaint.

It’s like opening my mouth when a man wants me to suck him off.

Her nasty brown hair feels like grease and smells like open ass, but I braid the holy fuck out of it because if I don’t, she’ll become my enemy. Life in the mental ward is difficult enough as it is, so I really don’t want to piss off the alpha female.

“Nice job, although it could be a little tighter, she says. The other ladies of the manor are staring at me, waiting for my response.

A bit of my inner angry bitch sneaks out.

Hey, I say, I told you that I wasn’t all that great at doing hair.

She laughs and looks away. I silently berate myself for being so careless with my attitude, but the c-rag inside is quite pleased.


You’re going to miss lunch, I hear the nurse tell me from the doorway of my sparse accommodations.

I’m not hungry, I mutter back from under my blanket. Your food is just awful.

She makes a disapproving sound with her tongue and walks away, logging it into her little notebook.

If I keep losing weight, maybe my man gone astray will change his mind and love me again.

If I really desired, I could hook-up with the male night nurse. I can tell that he’s interested by the way he looks at me when he gives me my pills at 2 in the morning.

I don’t pursue it, although I regret that decision now.

 

ABBY’S NOT NORMAL

10/18/18

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