I should have included this with yesterday’s poem.
As you may or may not know (depending on how long you’ve read my blog), my mom was an insane and brutal woman. She hated me because she hated my dad. I hated her because she abused me.
I don’t know why, but I felt some sense of responsibility related to helping her out when she was diagnosed with a brain tumor. I take it back; I do know why, I did it because I was dysfunctional as all hell.
I checked in on her a couple of times a day. I either brought her food, or cooked it at her house. One day I walked into her place and caught her trying to shoot herself in the head. I knew she carried a pistol in her purse and I had taken it away from her for just this reason. I had no idea she had a spare.
She couldn’t take the safety off and was trying to figure it out when I walked in the door. I took it away from her. I also discovered that she had just cut all of our family photos and her cash into tiny pieces.
Maybe it was the wrong reaction, but I got very angry at her. I was going well out of my way to help a woman I didn’t even like and she was going to have me walk in and discover her dead, with her brains splattered on the wall? She was in no pain at this point, so maybe it was to be her final act of hatred towards me.
I went through her medications (most of which she used recreationally), found the strongest she had, poured a glass of whiskey (she had plenty), set them in front of her, and walked out the door.
Of course, she didn’t use them; it wouldn’t have been dramatic enough of an exit for her…
If you don't already know why I would do this, I ask you to read my family and childhood related blog entries.