not a nice one. might want to skip it.

Kids, you were warned. Some of this is disgusting.

I woke up in the middle of the night again thinking at 90mph, this time about my mom. So, here goes. This is THE STORY.

I've mentioned before that the woman who raised me wasn't my birth mother-I was adopted.
I go back and forth. Sometimes I call this person 'mom' out of habit, and sometimes 'the woman who raised me' because she was not worthy of the title 'mom'...yet for the purpose of clarity, let's just do the 'mom' thing, 'k?

I grew up in a home where my mother set the tone. She was the boss, no question about that. For one thing, she was sober, and for another, she was the only adult who knew how to read. The prevailing atmosphere there was one of strange meaningless secrecy, grinding resentment, rage, unbelievable cancerous guilt and a complete acceptance of life as a miserable practical joke with disaster waiting just around the corner. That was home, and that was her. To a lesser degree my father too, but he was usually pickled and so his part in the equation wasn't as strong.

It wasn't that she didn't have every good reason in the world to be as messed up as she was. She did. Her early life was an absolute nightmare of poverty, abuse of every kind, starvation and abandonment, something only Dickens could make readable. I don't know if I can.

Truthfully? I don't want to. This my story. I don't want to drum up any sympathy for her. She wasn't worth it. When she was a child? Yes. But not by the time I got her.

Despite how that sounds, I don't see it as selfish. You see, I was treated like shit for 18 solid years. It was constant and it was comprehensive. Every single level of what went on in that house was tainted with this woman's twisted view and motivations. And as far as shit goes, it was pretty bad shit, too.
Whenever I got up the nerve to approach an adult to make it stop, I got the same treatment...'What was your mother's childhood like?.... Oh! That poor woman! You should be more understanding. Anyway, you'll be 18 soon and you can move out!'
I mean, it's bad enough when things go wrong for someone with no power. When they feel like they have to turn the situation into a pissing contest with their abuser just to try and 'deserve' help... that's criminal. That's just fucking obscene.*

Anyway, that's crucial to the way I've had to learn to think about my mom. No matter what she had gone through, how bad she was, or why she was the way she was, I wasn't responsible for it. More importantly, no matter what her past had been like, this was the present, and these were the things SHE was choosing to do NOW.

The woman was a fucking sadist. Yes, she had problems, yes, she needed therapy. Probably medication, too. But not everyone that goes through disastrous things goes on to inflict disaster on everyone else. The thing was, past aside, she just really, genuinely enjoyed being...mean. It made her laugh. Remember those schoolyard bullies? Yes. Just exactly like that, except older and sneaker, with all those years of experience to draw on for ideas.

No shit.

Just take it for granted that all the revolting, twisted things that the typical Irish Catholic woman of that era believed about bodies and sex were passed down to me, OK? That's all a given. Women are disgusting, soiled pants ground into the face, check.

Now add this: The woman sexually molested me. Not just once, either. Of course, it wasn't really molestation, it was 'toilet training', according to her. Occasional toilet training. That I didn't need. That went on up until the age of 4. Using red-hot water out of the tap and adult-sized products to administer it. While slapping me, hitting me, knocking me up against the tub and the door, and kneeling in my stomach.
Yeah.

Not bad enough?

She invited the woman next door to help.

The woman next door showed her how to 'make it feel good.' So I'd stop fighting.

What memories do you have from when you were four?

Over the years I'd catch my mother spying on me while I was getting dressed, taking a bath or using the toilet. I began stuffing a bathrobe under my bedroom door after I caught her LYING ON THE FLOOR PEEKING IN UNDER THE GAP. She even used to call home and then quiz me about why I was so out of breath when I answered the phone and what was I doing, hmmmmm? Well, running to get to the phone, mom.

I didn't catch on to what her problem was until later, but her reason for doing this shit was that she was obsessed with catching me masturbating. And even though she did a couple of times when I was way older (as in, flinging the door wide and yelling"'A HA! CAUGHT YA! WHADDYA THINK, SHOULD WE BRING YER DAD IN TO SEE THIS?" ew, ew, unbelievably disgusting and perverted, ew), it's not like I was a spider monkey way back in grade school for heavens' sake; hell, I didn't figure that stuff out until way later. But yeah. Religious tracts about 'self pollution'? Going though my belongings and taking 'usable' items? Check.

And bear this in mind throughout....this is a woman going into her late 40's. This is what she was doing to a little kid.** You get the picture?

It all factored in to a greater obsession she had with spying in general.

She used to sneak up on me. Outside... in the house...at stores...wherever. Suddenly I'd feel eyes on me or hear a snicker and there she'd be; God only knew how long she'd been there.

She lifted the extension and listened in on my calls. At random. For no reason.

Meanwhile, I was a wonderful little citizen. I gave nobody any trouble whatsoever. I was a good girl. Quiet, shy, timid, well-mannered.
Because I lived in constant, unrelenting terror.

She went though my trash-and kept things! Hidden in the pantry closet! I found them, and I mean a stash of stuff covering years, freaked out and burnt it all in the fireplace. This wasn't state secrets either...this was things I'd copied out of books or figure studies I'd torn up. Stupid kid jokes. Drafts of letters. Stuff like that. Her 'blackmail file', she called it.

And all during this time, while I was supposed to be some kind huge grammar school deviant, the woman knowingly allowed me to be sexually abused by my cousin. Over a period of YEARS, beginning when I was six. I mean, she busted this kid numerous times! She blamed it on me for being 'such a sexy little girl'. By the time I was eight? No longer a virgin.

The reason another cousins' 30 year old shitbag husband had grabbed my 13 year old breast? "Because you're wearing a bathing suit top, Miss Sexy-Suzie! What did you expect? Go change into some clothes and start acting like a lady!"

When I was stalked by an actual serial rapist (Milwaukie Journal 1973) several months later and almost forced into the guys' car, I'd learned my lesson. I knew way better than to even mention it to anyone. The police needed information and I had a complete description of the man and his vehicle. Come forward? Not a chance. Not a fucking chance in hell. Nobody would believe me and nobody would care. Screw that.***

Now the worst thing this woman did was not any of the above.
No, it was the lying.

Lying to me, lying about me. For no reason whatsoever. Lying about things that never happened.

Telling me that things I remembered had never happened.
That last one was the worst.

This was an alcoholic family situation, and so everything that went on between the members was secret anyway. Nobody acknowledged it, nobody talked about it, nobody thought anything was wrong and nobody from the outside ever saw a thing.
On top of all this, the lying that I'm talking about was a thing that went on daily. She lied when the truth would have sounded better. About anything. She interrupted me while I was talking to people to tell them that every word I was saying was a lie. Not that I was passing nuclear secrets to the Chinese; either, I mean during the course of a casual conversation, out of the blue she'd pop up with 'Oh, ha ha, now, honey... don't go telling little stories now, ha ha..." all weird The person would look down at me with contempt, and she'd smile at me.

Fucking smile at me.

Would you like a therapy issue? Here! Have a therapy issue!

I might happen to ask her an offhand, innocent question about an event that had occurred in the past- no matter how trivial, now- and it was pretty much a crapshoot whether she'd remember it and continue on with the conversation, or turn on you like a dog snarling 'What in the hellarya talkin' about? You just make up the biggest stories-! EVERY WORD out of your mouth is nuttin' but a stinkin' lie!'

One of her favorite weapons was food. Piss her off? She took a favorite item off the menu. Forever.

Really piss her off? She cooked garbage.

She cooked garbage a lot.
If any particular item of food could be fit into a pressure cooker or, better yet, boiled, then by God, that's what happened to it. You'd get the mess handed to you and then the screaming-literal screaming- would commence, about how it was a sin to waste food, and we never had nuttin and was glad to eat what was put in front of us, and we were lucky to get oatmeal, and nothing pleases you, and on and on and on. Yes, it was done on purpose. Not even the dog would eat the shit.

Did she shoplift? Oh my. This deserves a post of it's own. One of her favorite things to swipe was toilet paper. She was big on toilet paper out of public restrooms. I rode the #30 bus many times with a double-sized roll of asswipe from the ladies room at Meier and Franks under my coat. We had money- money wasn't even an issue. She just stole shit.

Hell, she even stole from me.

-Birthday presents, for starters. I'd see them once at the party, then a couple of years later I'd find them still in the wrappings in the top of a closet with one end torn open, as though she had slipped the gift out to see what it was and then put it back. Some of those things were re-gifted to other kids; I caught that happening a couple of times. Others are more than likely still there. A toy merry-go-round. A walking doll. Wind-up toys.

-Two inheritances. One from my grandfather, one from an eccentric lady in our neighborhood.

-My grandmothers' house. Held in trust for me.

No shit.

She hoarded, and I've already written about that. Mostly paper things, like pamphlets and books. Also food. We had food from-literally!-1962.

Alongside all this ran the constant bickering bullshit that went on between her and my father. People could hear it out in the street. I would ride my bike and be able to hear them from down the block. Lots of times I'd turn around and head back out until way after dark.

When she 'received the Lord into her heart' in 1974 it meant that she could no longer be a screaming harpy 24 hours of the day because that didn't look good. What happened to her then was like a form of satanic Tourettes...she'd be going along, all nice, and then suddenly out of nowhere say or do something just outrageously evil...and while you were standing there with your mouth hanging open, just keep right on going like nothing happened.

For example: I had an abortion when I was 19. My parents took me to the clinic. I look back on this now and I smell a set-up, but at the time I was desperate, and they were acting very human and supportive. So I (not in any position to look a gift horse in the mouth anyway) appreciated it. I was scared to death and completely ashamed.

My father left us alone in the car for a few moments to get some change for the meter. My mother suddenly turned around, smiled at me and said 'I just want you to know that I'm going to hell for this. Just so you know. Yep. I'm helping you commit murder. I just thought I'd tell you that. I just wanted you to know." She smiled again, I went in and had the abortion in a total state of numb shock, and she denied it ever happened for the rest of her life. Took me out for pizza afterward.

Oh, it gets better, though. She had the gall to recount the entire (edited) version of this story years later to my cousin Emily, with herself in the starring role as 'tolerant modern Catholic woman.' Imagine my joy upon hearing that secondhand. And from Emily, no less!

There's a perception about abusive families...that the primary abuser will be male. That women seldom sexually abuse...that when they do alcohol is a factor, and then it will be with a male relative. That most abusers are simply acting out learned behaviors. That women aren't 'as bad' as men.

None of that applied here. None of it. The first thing I ever saw or even heard of that sounded remotely like what had happened to me?

Sybll. Sybll's mother. Imagine my excitement.

And guess what else I had in common with Sybll? Her father knew, too.

Do I have anything good to say about my mom? I do, actually. I'm not going to say it here, because if one person in the comments mentions something like 'Oh, but you're SO lucky to at least have something positive to remember! ' I'll fucking lose my shit on them.
You see, when you survive something horrific, recalling those few moments when things didn't suck doesn't mean anything. It isn't even relevant. Its like saying 'Yeah, Ted Bundy was a killer and a necrophile and everything but the man did drive a very economical car!" There is no 'up' side to shit like that. The 'good things' don't make it better. You don't go' Damn, why didn't I think of that! That Bundy, boy, what a maniac... but he drove a Volkswagen! Wow! That sheds a WHOLE NEW LIGHT ON THINGS!"

She wouldn't stop. She never admitted to anything, she continued to refuse to talk about any of it, she refused to go to therapy with me, she refused to mend things. When she started writing letters addressed to my three-year-old daughter that said things like 'Why doesn't your mommy love me any more? We never did anything to her, just tried to love her the best we knew how...' I cut her off. 1987.

Not a moments' regret. It's been the best 20 years of my life.

I have a great life now. I've been through therapy, and it was successful beyond my wildest imaginings. Nothing in my life resembles my former world in any way, and I'm proud of that. Every now and then, though, this comes back, and reminds me that I have to say these things too.
Kind of a 'like me, like my dog' thing.

_______________________________

*I'd like to send out a big 'Die Slowly and Painfully' to Mrs. Mackie, my high school advisor. Another one goes out to Pastor Tomlin of the Adventist Church. Way to go! I hope someone who really needed it received the help they deserved!
And lets not forget to give a big ol' heapin helpin o' thanks to Dr. Lendon Smith, of 'childhood asthma is most often merely an attempt to get attention' fame, for providing my mother with a doctor-endorsed "reason" to deny me medical care.

I am also beholden to him for his assertion that 'frequent illness and allergies' were the sign of an 'overly sensitive or immature child' . I hope you died covered in seeping carcinomas, Smith. I really do.

**Not an out of control teenager, not an icky adolescent. A little kid with health problems.

***I claimed that karma and I pay it back proudly. I was a helpless kid then, but now I can make a difference. When the chance comes to do that, I get involved.