Nov 19th 2016

Trying to understand my mother in People suck. Cats are awesome. Dogs are alright.

•  Nov. 19, 2016, 5:05 a.m.
 
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• Public

And wishing that it were easier to do.

The more I learn about myself, the more I think I understand about her.

I went my WHOLE LIFE not knowing that I have a developmental disorder. I especially love that nobody even bothered to tell me, in forty years, that I was obviously different in a serious way. When I got my diagnosis, people said, “I knew you were special, but I didn’t want to bring it up”, and “so THAT’S what it is!”. Seriously people, you couldn’t be bothered to tell the person obviously most affected by it!? 

So I’ve been an extraordinary burden to my parents from day one, apparently. And while my father was awesome beyond description, my mother is OCPD, and not a really great person in general.

So I guess when my father died, she decided that her obligation to me was over, and she split. And by all rights that was a perfectly reasonable thing to do. I was over thirty. I should’ve been well able to handle life on my own.

Except I wasn’t, because I’m autistic, and after my father was gone my entire f@#$ing family stopped so much as talking to me. I became a pariah.

My aunts, okay. They’re just aunts. Their not wanting me to sleep indoors when I was homeless, I can live with. I hate them for it, but it doesn’t cause me any internal conflict.

My sister and my brother? What the hell did I ever do to them? They’re twelve and thirteen years older than me, respectively. We barely even spoke growing up. What the f@#$ could they have against me?!  But they do. What kind of brother RETURNS the birthday card you sent him, with “never forget there is nothing for You here” written on it in black marker? I’m purely guessing that my father, being their stepfather, treated me so much better than he treated them that they resent me.

My mother, though; I can’t wrap my brain around. She sold every gift I’d ever given her, when my father died. Except the jewelry, that she gave back to me, along with her wedding rings. And she moved far away, to an apartment, close to her other two kids, whom she prefers. She goes to the casino with them once a week. What do I get? “Please don’t come and visit me. You could upset my neighbors. You could get me thrown out.”. 
Gee, thanks, mom. It’s not like I worked in customer service for YEARS, perfecting a fake persona just for such situations, or any thing.

When we were homeless, I called her, to try to get someone to take my cats if I had to resort to killing myself. She said “Don’t put this on me”. When she came to visit me, four years later, KNOWING FULL WELL that I was surviving on twenty hours a week, she left while I was at work, without saying goodbye, because my refrigerator was busted, and she said “I can’t live like this”, as if it was my fault that I was broke.

And he she has lung cancer, and won’t even let me see her. After a life time of put downs and digs at my expense, now that my father, the only person who ever really loved me, is gone; she can finally be rid of me.

It’s not like I’m asking for financial assistance, or a place to sleep, or ANYTHING. I just want the woman who gave birth to me to see some value in my EXISTENCE. Instead of constantly insulting me when I call her and not wanting me around.

And she never will. Because I’m faulty. I’m defective. I’m not something that she can be proud of. I’m the weird girl. The one who never wanted kids and still plays video games all night and gets wrapped up in fascination over autumn leaves or pretty rocks. Emotionally I’m maybe ten or twelve, and I always will be, and guess what you callous old bat: It’s not my f@#$ing fault.

I’ve spent my life trying to please this contemptible woman, who will never, ever, like me, no matter WHAT I do. And I have to try to learn to accept that.

It’s easier, knowing that I’m on the spectrum. That at least answers the question of “why” she doesn’t like me. But the sad fact is that almost nobody likes me. It’s who and what I am. I’m not a likeable person. I never have been. This is not a new thing. It’s disturbing to think that she probably NEVER liked me. She only tried to be a reasonably good parent while my father was alive because he did.

Maybe I’d feel better if I “adopted” some lonely older lady. Some woman, old enough to be my mom, who would actually enjoy getting cards and gifts once in a while. My mom always says”don’t send me a anything”. There has to be a woman in her sixties or older who’d appreciate my attempts at being helpful and considerate. Maybe I’ll call a couple nursing homes and ask around.

Because my present situation is just tearing me up, trying to learn to look at my mother as a toxic, malicious, person. Even when it’s obviously the case, I still just wish she could say, “I’m sorry. I recognize that the way you are isn’t your fault, and I should’nt have been so inconsiderate.”. But she can’t. To her I’ll always be a failure.

I just wish I could say “f@$$ her”, like I would if it were anyone else. Eventually I’ll get there.