The Dilemma

Yes, she's been horrible. Yes, we have been horrible to each other. A lot of angry and hurtful words exchanged. A lot of hatred between us. My anger the result of her mistreatment towards me and her anger the result of me robbing her of her 20s or maybe anger toward everything but me, but I just happened to be there to take it out on.

Things haven't really changed much over the years. She hasn't grown out of the temper tantrums and mood swings. She still screams obscenities. She doesn't use physical violence toward me anymore, so that's a plus.

She often bails on me and abandons me during important times like birthdays, holidays, finals, my wedding, pregnancy, birth...basically if the focus isn't on her she will kick and scream until it is about her. She did help out a ton the first few months of Evan's life, so that's nice.

We have had good times. They exist. When things are good they are good. We like to get lunch together, shop, watch movies, watch Evan. But when things are bad they are really bad. Currently we haven't spoken in 2 months. Pretty typical of the cycle.

My son broke a large vase while she was babysitting and John and I were out having our anniversary dinner. I received the call and immediately asked if Evan was okay, was he injured, did the glass cut him or get in his eyes. I was feeling very afraid that he was hurt, as any mother would fear and inquire about. He was fine, just very shaken up because the sound of the glass breaking was so loud. He cried for a long time but eventually calmed down. We finished our dinner, per her advice, then quickly drove home. Evan was asleep and there was a weird tension in the house as soon as we walked in. I asked if everything was ok, why was she acting strangely toward me. I asked for a detailed play-by-play of the situation. Didn't get much out of her. She started crying and gathering her stuff to leave. I was confused. No one was hurt. She said I was being insensitive to her, it was very traumatic. She goes to the door and I have no words because I am so confused about what she was doing. I asked why she was behaving this way. Door open, half way out, she says she doesn't want to get into it with me. Into what? I don't understand. She begins raising her voice and getting angry, saying I didn't understand how traumatic this was. But no one was hurt. Evan was sound asleep in bed. Then. Then she says it. The most selfish thing I have ever heard uttered from a grandmother's mouth. She says: you only care about how Evan is doing, you didn't ask if I was ok. I asked her to leave. I told her to get out. I was in shock that someone could say these words.

I haven't talked to her since. We have exchanged a ton of anger-filled emails and texts. She's turned this into a fight about me not respecting her and me being selfish. She tried to call me once but I didn't pick up. I don't have the strength or patience to deal with her. It's a lot of work.

Since then she has gone to the babysitter to see Evan without asking me. Crying and complaning to her about me. Telling all of our business to a woman she doesn't even know. She has gone to my mother in law's house and spilled all of our personal details, calling me names and making me look bad. It's disturbing. What mother does that?

I believe that she is bi-polar. I've believed that for a long time. I did research and she fits all of the symptoms. I'm scared for her. Only recently have I asked her to get some help, to talk to a professional. She won't, says she's fine. I can't let her around my family when she's said these words about her grandson. When she's put more importance on herself than on her grandson. Her behavior and way of showing anger is unhealthy and downright scary. I do not want my child to witness that and think it's ok. John has seen way too much already.

The dilemma: she's missing so much of Evan's development and life. I feel sad for her that she doesn't even seem to care. So, do I call and let her see him? Do I open up that door? I've asked her to get help before she can see him and she refuses. She'll miss his whole life. I don't want to know her anymore, I don't want a relationship, but what about Evan? I do miss the good times. They are just so hard to come by that I'd rather not gamble with it anymore.

It's so tiring. Round and round we go.

Partner

I've always been her partner. Not really a daughter. More of a friend, enemy, moving assistant, house cleaner, mock-spouse sort. At times it's fine. Others though...it's not a good feeling.

I've always known way more than any kid should know about her finances, her personal life, the deep inner working of her mind. It's a lot for a kid to know just how poor we are, or the worry and frustration that comes along with not being able to pay the electric bill.

I've helped do the budget and money handling and bill paying for as long as I can remember. Maybe it's contributed to my abilities as an accountant or how to properly manage my own money or to pick a profession that makes a decent wage. I'm thankful for that. Looking back on how it made me feel as a youngster, though, I was not thankful at the time.

 I always had the knot in my stomach. How would we make it to the next pay day? How could we buy food with $20? The electric is going to be turned off and it's July in the desert. The car will be repossessed if we don't pay soon. I'm sure thinking about this sort of thing at 10 years old while I sit in class trying to focus on the reading assignment is not a healthy thing.

It's not her fault. She had no one else. I'm the oldest kid. It's my responsibility, right? This is where the line of child/parent gets blurry and disappears.

This has followed me. To this day, she still tells me every last detail of her financial situation. It adds stress on top of my own stress. Even in my twenties I still don't feel right about knowing these things and feeling like I have to fix it. I don't talk about my finances with anyone but my husband. If I had no husband, it's only my business to know. Only my problem to solve.

I've saved her a dozen times or so. Money is never a good thing to handle between family members. It messes with emotions and increases frustration. Increases tension.

Aside from financial matters, I've always know details about her very personal life that no one should know. Many occasions she has blurted out personal accounts of activities I can't bear to write about. A daughter should never know these things.

She's never quite decided which role I'm supposed to be. It switches back and forth. When she realizes I know too much, she'll become upset and tell me it's not business. Then other times it's my duty to listen to her complaints, bad days at work and financial troubles.

It's a lot of work to be a partner.

Vulgar Display of Power

Since I was very young I remember having that fear of her. At any moment things could get crazy. I think in a way this fear kept me from doing things that would mess up my life. Kept me from making decisions that would encourage her violence to come out. That's the good part of the fear.

The bad part is that you never really feel at ease or comfortable around her. You're not sure when or what will set her off. My brother and I were always asking her if she was ok, what was wrong. We were constantly worried. Had that knot in our stomachs.

As the oldest child, I took the brunt of her stress. I was the garbage can where she could dump all that frustration, sadness, anger and worry. I remember getting into trouble for the silliest most innocent things. It often turned into physical survival. At 8  I remember running away from her, running through the house and she caught me by the hair. Hitting me and pulling my hair out. Her boyfriend had to pull her off me. I'll never forget that. I have many many memories of her chasing me, catching me and then beating the crap out of me.

At 16 she chased me through the house and knocked me down by hitting me in the back with a bar stool. My friend went with me to the ER to make sure my kidneys weren't damaged.

There were so many times I gave her some reason to come and tear my room apart or the entire house. If I couldn't find a specific shirt, she'd come in a rage and pull all my drawers out and throw everything everywhere, knock down the dresser, sweep her arm across the top, things flying, me standing in a corner trying to weather the storm.

If I said something wrong, maybe in the wrong tone of voice even, she would throw things at me and knock furniture over. I'm pretty good at dodging. Of course, since it was my fault that she wrecked the house, I had to clean everything up. That's a fun way to spend your weekend as a child.

All of the physical violence was, of course, accompanied by screaming and yelling awful things. Crude names. I've been called most things including bitch, stupid, selfish, disrespectful and a load of others. She has such a scary face when the monstor comes out. Crazy eyes and spit flying as she screams how much she hates me.

Often the police were called. By a neighbor or by her in an attempt to scare me or show her power over me. As a kid under 13 they simply tell you to mind your mother. No matter what. At 16, they come pound on the bathroom door as you shower and make you come out with shampoo in your hair and dripping wet only to threaten you with juvenile hall. She builds the story against me. Like I was horrible. She denied being physically violent with me. They believed her.

She made sure I knew my place. Even though the place changed with severe unpredictability. She made sure I felt small and unimportant and weak. And I did. I was just a dumping ground afterall. No one was there to stand up for me.

As I got older and had more guts to fight back, I screamed back. I called her names and told her I hated her. I did. I told her,"No" when she would come at me to push me or slap me.

Somehow the fights were always about respect. She demanded respect. Even when the trigger was more related to the dishes not being as clean as she'd like or when she'd had a rough day and didn't like my tone of voice. It still is always about respect. Recently she turned the event of my son breaking a vase into a respect issue related to me.

She wants the power and has a terrible way of demanding it. It's pushed so many people away.

On the Move

We moved around a lot. A LOT. The first few years of my life we moved around because my Dad was in the military. After they split, though, we kept moving. Starting over. And over.

In 2nd grade I went to 10 different schools. I'll never forget that number because it shocked me when I counted them up that year. I think all the moving may have contributed to my shyness and inability to make friends easily.

I've only lived in 5 states but I've lived in TONS of different cities and TONS of different apartments and houses. Each time we uprooted, my heart would break. I thought for sure this time, or this time, or this time would be the right place for us. Some of the moving was due to the lack of jobs in the area or a boyfriend or an eviction.

I was her partner which meant I had just as much responsibility for the move as she did. Packing, moving and unpacking. Putting together furniture. Even at 8. We sometimes laugh about how we use to yell at each other during the moves, carrying heavy boxes an furniture. It was a lot to handle.

Growing up, I was always the new girl. I never stayed in a school for consecutive years until sophomore year in high school. It's tough being the new girl as a kid. Other kids aren't open to letting new ones into their groups. They don't care to get to know you. You get made fun of. You are alone a lot. You hold back tears a lot and your head feels like it's going to explode. You might get lucky and one nice girl will talk to you and after a few months you might consider her your friend. Someone to cling to to help save you from drowning in anger and sadness and silence. Or you might just stay quiet for an entire school year.

I like to be alone. I need my alone time. To be quiet, to do my own thing. I must have gotten use to being alone.

Sometimes now I get the urge to move, to change my surroundings. Like it's built into me now. Yet, it's comforting to stay in the same place for a long while. If I feel that urge coming on, I like to change something like a wall color or a picture frame. It's funny how all those painful experiences of change where I'm ripped away from friends or a school I love have effected me. They make me crave change sometimes.

Maybe that's why I liked (and like) to read so much. No matter what change was going on in my life, I could count on taking my books with me and immersing myself in their world. To get away from mine.

Young and Not Hungry

I can't remember if I was 5 or 6 when this happened. I was young though. Very young. She had a boyfriend (I think it was my brother's father). He some how convinced her that I had an eating disorder. At 6 years old. I didn't like him and he knew it. I ate, but I didn't eat a lot and I didn't like some of the stuff that was put in front of me. Pretty typical of a small child, if you ask me.

One night after a dinner I didn't like, they became enraged at me for not eating much. It got out of control. I remember being so small and these adults were towering over at me and yelling awful things about what happeneds to you when you don't eat and how dumb I was.

They loaded me up in the car and drove me to a facility to have me examined. It was a mental facility.

I was scared. How did an evening at home turn into this?

Doctors and nurses came in and poked me and prodded and asked me questions. I remember them trying to sway the conversation to make me look like I really had an eating disorder. I was so young and scared. She wasn't in the room with me. She was with him. I was alone.

I just wasn't hungry. That's all. I didn't like spinach or steak or tasteless mush.

I remember the wheels on the hospital beds. They scared me. The way the looked and the way they squeaked as someone was being wheeled down the hall. If I see wheels like that, I still get a stomachache.

I spent a couple of hours being examined and talked to by doctors, nurses and child psychologists. They didn't find anything of course. They sent me home. All she said was that I better start eating. Or else.

This was only the beginning of her trying to have me committed. It started when I was 6.

Disposable.

When I was around 15, she brought home a dog. It was a small, well-mannered, sweet dog that her friend gave her because she was moving away and the dog couldn't go along. The poor dog missed his family, you could tell. I sat by him for hours just petting him to try and make him feel at home. He warmed up to me quickly. He never messed in the house because he was potty trained.

After a few days, she changed her mind and decided she didn't want him anymore. The friend had already moved away. So one Saturday afternoon she loaded everyone up in the car along with the dog. She wouldn't answer our questions about where we were going and what we were doing. I knew though. And I begged and pleaded and became hysterically upset about her plans. They were not good plans.

She dumped him. In the middle of a neighborhood faaaar from ours. And sped away as he chased our car. He was a small dog. God, I still get teary eyed. It was cruel and unneccessary. There are places to bring unwanted animals. There are ads to put in the paper for a free dog. She didn't even try. She just tossed him out like a piece of garbage. It makes me sick and its unforgivable.

I'm sure he didn't survive long out there. No food. No water. He was small. All I could do was scream and yell and cry about how awful this treatment was. He didn't deserve this. She didn't care.

She's always had problems with pets. Even now. She gets it in her head how wonderful it would be to have a cat or dog as a companion. Goes and gets one and then gives up on it a week later. She has had a cat for 3 years, which is very unusual. Yet, she'll randomly start thinking he needs a friend. He's not safe though. He could get the boot at any time. She had a cat for 2 years once, then the cat got hurt and she didn't want to pay so she gave her away. Just like that. She and my brother had a dog. They kept her in a small cage most of the time. It broke my heart. They got tired of her and gave her away. More recently she had a small dog for a couple of weeks. Kept him in his cage most of the time. Became upset that he wasn't getting good at potty training. Gave up on him and gave him away.

We are different. My animals are part of my family. I made a promise to them when I got them, to protect them, care for them and give them a good life. Sure they make me upset at times, the vet bills can be horrendous but I wouldn't just give up on them. We are their family. We chose them.

Pets are not disposable.

Holidays

The cluster of holidays is right around the corner. I can't help but think about the holidays that have gone by. There must have been some that were good. There must have. I must be overlooking them.

Yes! I've got it. There were a few holidays sprinkled in my childhood where she and I would bake together. Those are special times. We would bake pumpkin muffins, cookies and more. I was about 13 at the time. We lived in a 2 bedroom apartment, the 3 of us, and we made the best of not having money or family around. I like these memories.

Others creep into my thoughts, though. The many many holidays that were disasters and full of anger and tears and the throwing of pies and other objects. My friends would always be excited about the coming holidays, with their family traditions and rituals. I always dreaded them. I didn't have a house full of family, a warm atmosphere, traditions or anyone to protect me from the extra time spent at home with her. I had tension. There was always some dark cloud looming overhead. Casting a cold shadow on our house, on her. I had to be careful. Very careful about things I said, the tone of my voice. I almost always screwed up and said something unwelcoming and she would explode.

Explode like Hiroshima.

When I was 16 she threw a pie at me on Thanksgiving and another at the couch. I had to try and clean it up as she screamed above me about not respecting her and how much of a bitch I was. I ended up running out of the house and drove away to sit at a local park while others ate peacefully around a table. My boyfriend (now husband) brought me some food so I could have even a small piece of Thanksgiving.

When I was 13 she got violently upset on Halloween. She screamed at me as I met my friend and her parents to go to a haunted fire station. They saw her. Suddenly at the last minute I wasn't allowed to go because she was on edge. Of course I was upset, she had already told me I could go. Then she turned it around and said fine get out of here along with a slew of awful names.

That same year she came home drunk from a Christmas party. Drove drunk. Couldn't make it up the stairs. Crying. Then quickly turned angry because I didn't like that she drove drunk. She spent the rest of the night in her room.

Many many Christmas' have been spent alone, watching tv with my brother and eating a can of soup while she shut herself in her room. If you tried to talk to her she would scream at you about how selfish and ungrateful you were even if all did was get dressed for the day.

As I grew older, moved out and had a life of my own, she began the ritual of creating a huge problem as the holidays approached. Starting a fight and saying such awful things that I didn't want to talk to her anymore. So we wouldn't be in contact for the holidays at all.  For most of the years that I have been out of her house, this is how the holidays go. Even my son's first Christmas.

I hope to make the holidays a joyful time for my family. I don't want them to have hurtful memories of these times.

Her Daughter

It's hard being her daughter. I suppose my story isn't as bad as others out there yet, it's my story.

Our relationship has always been hard. Strained. It's always been a lot of work. I have memories from a very young age of abuse and mistreatment. Of being terrified of her. It's hard not to think of them when I think of her, what kind of person she is.

She's 2 people really. One person is a nice, gentle and caring lady. Someone who seems concerned about you. The other...the other is a....monster. Someone who you must tip toe passed in hopes that you don't get caught in her radar. This person is scary. I still get a stomachache thinking about the things she's done. The things she's said.

It's hard being her daughter.