Writing

I am having a hard time sitting down and writing, well, anything. I just can't seem to get the energy to put some words here.

But I have a friend I've been emailing with. We communicate frequently lately, although there was a period of a few years in there that we didn't talk at all.

She emails me, I email her, repeat.

This morning I got the third email in a row that has gone unanswered.

So I answered it. And then realized I could paste a bit of it in here. So that I'm putting something on my blog and catching some of my memories. Which is kind of important to me and has been lacking.
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I have a lot I want to say. Things I'd like to put on my blog. Things I need to write. And I am just...not. I think partly because I'm rrreally working on the whole processing thing. I'm not sad he died.

I just feel ripped off. I didn't have that 'I was robbed' feeling until he died, then I started thinking about all the things that I didn't have, things that were taken from me (my brothers, for example) and what a totally fucked up mess my childhood was and how unfair I feel it was. I know people have it worse. Lots of them.

But it's not a contest, ya know? Shit is shit and it all stinks.

I've been delaying taking my morning shower because I don't know why. I know I feel better if I get up, pee, and take a damn shower first thing. "They" say that taking a hot shower isn't good for your skin, but you know what? I reached the age of invisibility about 15 years ago and I really don't care if I look a little mottled or wrinkled. I'm definitely not trying to compete in the dating market, I've earned every single gray hair and little wrinkle and even the big wrinkles. So if someone doesn't like how I look?

Not my problem.

I do think it's valid for someone to take issue if I smell like ass, though. So that shower will be happening as soon as I finish this email. Which will probably end up being a sort of blog post after I edit it a bit.

I'm having an angry day. I keep remembering more and more shit from my childhood and how really fucked up things were and have gone from a 'poor mom, she really didn't know what to do' to 'if a kid under my care was dealing with bad stuff and I did NOTHING then I'd be complicit in the abuse' mindset.

She was selfish, dull and stupid, deliberately obtuse and decided to put her fingers in her ears and go, "La la la la laaaaaa." For YEARS. Her sick-assed fucking husband drove her oldest child OUT OF THE FAMILY HOME and she still did nothing. When he informed the whole community that he 'sent me away for my own good' she dutifully went along with the narrative.

"La la la la laaaaaaaaaaaaaaa."

She's doing that right now with regards to her poor old dog. Said dog is 16.5 years old. She was getting decrepit a few years back, and when we saw her in December, we couldn't believe the deterioration. Her eyes are all cloudy, she's mostly deaf, she moves with obvious pain and is basically a meat doorstop at this point.

But Mom is lonely, so she appreciates the companionship of her old dog.
Added bonus, the dog never calls her names, berates her for existing or makes angry and impossible demands all day long.

Although on further reflection, the dog does have crappy manners, farts a lot, occasionally shits by the front door and contributes nothing to the running of the household. My god, it's almost like my dad is still there!

So suddenly Daisy can't use her back legs. What does my mother do?

To prove she's an obliviot, she takes the fucking dog to the fucking vet, the vet gives the dog a (FOUR HUNDRED DOLLAR!!!) laser treatment to 'help' and then takes her home. The dog is crying. Like non stop. She's in terrible pain, she doesn't understand what's happening to her, she is not going to recover from this and what does Selfish Sally do? Decides to wait a week because she's probably going to get better!

She so much doesn't want to be alone that she's willing to watch her poor old dog suffer.
And suffer.
And she can sit there and listen to the agony. "Oh she's going to get better!"

She said the same shit about my dad.
"When he gets better and comes home."

Although to be fair, he did come home.
He didn't get better, but hey, a 50% average is, well, average.

I think she should have the dog euthanized.

Come to think of it, having Dad euthanized would probably have been kinder than what he went through and what she went through while trying to take care of his ungrateful and caustic ass. She had some rare candid moments last week during one of our evening Messenger chats.

She started talking about how hard things were.

I told her that he was always mean. And that the dementia took away whatever tiny bit of filter he ever had.

In reading back over the conversation, I was trying to be affirming. "You did everything you could." "None of those things were your fault." "He had always been paranoid. I can recall him thinking 'they' were listening to phone conversations back when I was in the 6th grade."

She was mad at herself for 'not being nicer' near the end. When he was screaming at her, "I'm dying, get the fuck out of here and leave me alone!" he punctuated it by throwing everything he could grab from his bedside table at her.
I guess it's a good thing his aim was terrible.

"I would have walked out, closed the door and left him in there to throw his tantrum."

I didn't say, "If you'd refused to allow him to treat you that way 60 years ago, it might have been a little easier." It was in my head, though. A good thing about Messenger is that I can type one thing and say another. I talk to the screen often.

It's *not* a good thing that the same mean spirited petulant asshole just got worse toward the end. He was never a nice person. At least not when no one outside the family was watching.

Blah.

I'm going to go take a shower. And maybe eat something. Do a load of laundry. It's Sunday afternoon and I've done ::checking::: fuck all this weekend.