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.

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

Spirit in the Sky

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You look like you just found out that Santa isn’t real, the old lady said to me from her plush, queen-sized bed.

I was only supposed to be cooking meals, helping her eat and take her medicine, not give her a sponge bath and transfer her to a toilet-chair. I didn’t have the training to be a home health aide, the job I applied for was a helper/companion.

I had been mislead and lied to. I would report the agency the next day.

I will never forget this woman, who was 93, quite frail and basically dying. Her rich son was across the country doing his thing, while she festered away with inadequate caregivers.

Imagine her anger, the fear that she must have had. She had nothing good to say about him, complaining to me while I did my best to wash her rail-thin body.

Afterward, I took her vein-ridden hand and sincerely apologized for my lack of knowledge.

It isn’t your fault, at least you care, she said. Most of these girls who come into my home are rude and treat me like dirt.

She looked away and I saw tears in her milky blue eyes.


It’s official now, my entire family is aware that my mom is not getting any better, but instead worse. My guess is that this is her last holiday season.

I’m in auto-bot mode, just doing what I can to make her life more bearable. I’ll worry about myself afterwards.


I don’t believe in Santa.

If I was able to see that 93-year-old woman again, I’d tell her that grief is the consequence of love and that the people in our lives are not infallible. We trust the wrong individuals, relationships can be broken in just 2 seconds and in the end, the only person we truly have in this lifetime is ourselves.

I would also tell her what a complete piece of shit her son is for leaving her alone with strangers like he did while she lay dying in her condo.

I’d also thank her for the experience, because I would never fucking do that to my mom. I’ll be there with her until she leaves this place for the spirit in the sky.

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