Fertig

I don’t really know how much longer my birth mother will live. She’s very sick and she’s very dishonest about virtually everything that leaves her mouth. But after last Friday, I refuse to concern myself with suchery. I didn’t know it when I awoke Friday morning on a mission to see my mother through a surgery we had only weeks prior been told she wouldn’t survive, but that day would prove to be the last straw for me. The following pictures are some that were snapped weeks ago as my sister and I were with our mother in the hospital when it was explained to us that she was not only too weak to undergo a surgery but also that she likely had little more than a month to live. The man in the pics is “Ron” and is someone my mother had called her fiancé until this week when she randomly began referencing him as her husband. Neither of which has ever been the case. He’s also a fine human specimen, as you can see from the photos. I’ll spare you the rest of what I know about this man. No one’s mother should ever be with him. It’s safe to say that the last picture in this line-up is probably the last time I loved my mother.

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My entire life, and similarly for the duration of the lives of my siblings, my mother has consistently chosen anything and everything over her children. For this and numerous other reasons which I’ll mostly not go into here, she is quite literally the very worst human being I’ve ever known in person.

It’s pretty painful to live 34 years knowing your birth mother never really loved you. But that, I can deal with. After all, eventually one gets big enough to shout back, hit back (god forbid), or avoid her. That last option once brought about a period of time that amounted to a full 50% of my current existence that went by without so much as a hello from her. It’s possible, in the most hopeful of minds, to rationalize that she perhaps never quite knew how to love. Her own mother says that my mother should never have become a mother. I think she says that because my mother has never demonstrated an interest in actually genuinely loving the human lives she created. A lack of interest in doing something shouldn’t be confused with an inability to do it.

For some reason though, even if one accepts that bullshit rationalization about someone not knowing how to love, I can tell you it hurts far worse – cuts far, far deeper – to see that she not only doesn’t love you like a mother would, but also that she doesn’t even like you.

Doesn’t even fucking like you.

I don’t understand it and I’m not likely to any time soon. And I can accept that – there’re lots of things I don’t understand. What I will not accept is the continuation of this abusiveness – at all. There comes a point when enough really is enough and one has to call it quits. I won’t ask her to change, but I wont endure anything more from her.

I’m done. I didn’t like her, but still loved her. Now even that isn’t true. She made a decision recently and in making that decision for herself, she made one for me also. This is over. My sincerest hope is that her next life brings her fresh opportunity to be what she should and also that her karmas don’t visit her too much at once.

Aum Tryambakam Yajamahe
Sugandhim Pushtivardanam
Urvarukamiva Bandhanam
Mrtyor Mukshiyamamrtitat

Shanti, Shanti, Shanti-hi

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