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.


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.

Exhausted by Life


Well then. It’s been a long time since I’ve written anything here. I almost forgot I had a 2nd blog that I created when I feel the need to stay on the down-low.

Which I do now.

Where to even start…there’s so much going on and all I really want to do is make a pillow fort to hide in.

I’ll just jump right into it, I suppose.

I’ve decided not to let the scared little 3 year old inside of me take over any longer. I’m facing my soon to be ex husband in court, the day after Mother’s Day, which is two weeks away. I did nothing wrong. He did the cheating and was heavy handed with his subtle abuse our entire 15 years together.

Why should I have to pay extra fines with money that I don’t have? I need to suck it up and just do it. I have a right to defend myself and just in case he thinks he has a right to half of my home, which he does not.

Since my mom is extremely ill, my aunt has offered to go with me for moral support.

I can do this. It’ll be difficult and I really hope that I don’t have a total panic attack or start crying.

Speaking of my mother, I don’t think she’ll make it much longer. She’s so miserable and I absolutely hate it. There isn’t anything that anyone can do. She’s seeing a surgeon this week about possibly getting a colonoscopy bag, if it would help her in any way, but I am doubtful that they’ll want to take a chance on a 74 year old woman with a bad heart and emphysema, who weighs less than 90 pounds.

On the good side (what’s that, Abbey?) of life, my 1 year anniversary with my boyfriend is coming up on June 3rd. It’s been a true life changer for me. I still have trust issues, mainly with being rejected once he finds out how fucked up I am, but I am sorting through all of that a day at a time. He treats me so well, I suppose that I’m still in shock most days.

That’s pretty fucking sad in its own way, isn’t it?

But back to the shitty end of the stick, I hate money. More importantly, I hate that I cannot work and make my own. I mean, I went to the grocery store on Saturday with my boyfriend and I used the zippy cart. Well, due to the continuing cold weather, internal stress and whatnot, it sent me into yet another fibro flare.

As much as I’d love to be healthy enough to work again, it ain’t gonna happen.

I try to keep my head above water, but I’m finding myself constantly sinking. I’ll probably have to sell my car to pay my house taxes.

I think that after my divorce is final, I’ll also be looking into possibly selling my home.

Poor people shouldn’t own a home.

I’m just really exhausted by life.


How about you?

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.


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.

Dental Dilemma

Most of the teeth in my mouth are rotting away and there’s nothing that I can do about it.

I don’t have dental insurance, nor can I afford it.

It looks like I’m stuck with emery boards and pliers.

Emery boards file down sharp, broken teeth that start to stab me in the cheek.

Pliers…well, I would have to be drunk as fuck and completely desperate, like that movie where Tom Hanks uses an ice skate to slam a tooth loose.

If he can do it, so can I!

Eating is a delicate, slow task. I’ve been practicing eating puree foods.

Anything crunchy scares me, like please no, I do not want a potato chip, thank you Aunt Edna (who doesn’t really exist, remember?)

I come from a family of bad teeth. All the dental floss and fancy toothbrushes over the years has done nothing to keep this cluster-fuck of a mouth of mine from going bad on me.

I don’t smile much, not because I don’t feel like it, no, it’s because I’m embarrassed to be seen with these funky chompers.

Unfortunately, about 130 million Americans lack private dental coverage. That includes 22 percent of children between ages 1 and 17, 40 percent of adults between 21 and 64 and 70 percent of seniors age 65 and older. When families can’t afford dental care, they skip it.

If you have dental insurance, go get a nice root canal.

I want pictures.

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.


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


Anonymity is pretty fucking neat.

Well, a few of you know who I really am. If you’d do me a solid and keep that knowledge to yourself, I’d be forever grateful.

But if you have no idea who I really am behind this crazed drawing of a woman handling sharp scissors, I’m a seasoned blogger with 6 years of experience. (Hire me for your next event!)

I recently decided to start over fresh as a completely different persona. But I’m still me.

Mind boggling, isn’t it?

When you have family and friends reading your writing…well, it makes it awkward sometimes. Like for example, how could I share that my Aunt Edna smells like fish-heads?

This clothespin fucking hurts.

I don’t have an Aunt Edna, but if I did, I’d have to keep that nugget all to myself, which would be a damned shame.

To get right to the truth of it, my cheating ex-husband played a large part in building my old blog and I started to become sickened by it. (As my name here suggests, I am not normal.)

I’d develop a panic attack when I went to start writing something. Not fun, not good and the more I thought about it, I realized that I had a legit phobia going the fuck on here.

Blogophobia, I suppose.

But now being anonymous, it gives me the freedom to write about whatever the hell I want to without any filters. Now I see why there are so many bloggers who decide to go incognito.

Until next time, remember, don’t be an asshole.

Abbey  11/25/18

Spirit in the Sky


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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