Just a vent about how cruel my mother was

I don’t know if this is the right place for this. But I forget how abusive and cruel my mother was all the time, and I remembered yesterday, and I need to vent.

I read an old diary entry last night and I couldn’t breathe for a second. Only two years ago she invited me to stay with her. It will never stop to amaze me - she hated me, yet she wanted me close to her all the time. I was(and am) chronically ill, and I was really struggling at the time, and I accepted the invitation thinking I could get away from everything for a second. Right before I went, I called her.

And she told me she didn’t know what to do with me, a hypochondriac. I was just like my father, there’s always something, I always thought I was dying. And she’d had cancer, you know. That was a real illness. She was terrified of death and now she wasn’t, and I could learn something from her. Also: I shouldn’t be scared of death, I should be scared of pain.

I then wrote down that this is when I held the phone away from my ear and stopped listening. I couldn’t take more of it. I wrote down that it was fine, I could dissociate, I was still going to stay with her.

The shit I accepted from someone who called themselves my mother... Comparing me to my father, who she hated and tried to destroy too. And she was sort of succesful, because what do you know, he died of something knowing there was something wrong. Alone. No one believed him or helped. They said he was panicking about nothing. And history repeats itself, and the cycle continues. But not anymore.

My mother had something wrong with her my whole life. I was her nurse, her cook, her cleaner, when she was in bed again. She yelled at me, from that bed. I never did anything right. I was the real cause for all her suffering. She could make the flu look like a deadly disease. The idea that she handled illness well is funny - I’m finally at a point where I can laugh about it.

Meanwhile, it didn’t matter what happened to me, I never saw a doctor, or dentist. I fell of bikes, had back issues, had ear infections, had purple swollen ankles, cavities, needed glasses, I didn’t eat for two weeks because I kept throwing everything up, I came home covered in bruises and she said nothing. The list goes on and on and on.

I was next to her in the hospital, got her everything she wanted(not needed, wanted). But the water I got her wasn’t the right temperature, so she took it from me and dropped it in the bin. Looking at me like I’d hit her. Guess who was next to me in the hospital. An empty chair. And when I tried to call her, she either didn’t pick up, or hung up on me. Worst pain I’ve ever been in. No ‘mother’ to be seen.

When she finally did pick up, she told me to stop crying and then proceeded to cry herself, because I had to understand how difficult all of this was for her. Me going blind in one eye was very traumatizing… for her.

It’s hilarious to say I should be afraid of pain when that’s what I was in, and continue to be, 24/7.

These are the moments where I see her for what she is. Evil. That’s the simple truth. I read my notes on my phone, my old diaries, and it’s clear. And I want everyone to know. It takes everything in me not to type her full name. Never met anyone with the same name. The family that still defends her doesn’t know about most of it. I want to send an email telling them everything. And when I see her clearly, I don’t care about why she is the way she is. Look at what I grew up enmeshed with. Look at the blood on the walls of the house I grew up in. And I didn’t become abusive. I’m kind. I self reflect and change. I believed I was evil for a long time, and by now I know that’s what she wanted.

It’s fucking terrifying that this was my mother. And unbelievable that she told me this lie of a Miss Honey, a perfect mother, and that I helped keep that alive. I needed that lie - I don’t anymore. For so long I still saw it, two years ago I still convinced myself that not all of her was bad. Somewhere in there was a good person.

And my whole family only knows the me that my mother’s created. A hypochondriac, insane, selfish, needy, difficult, faking her illness, greedy, vain, shallow, too sensitive, dumb, will never succeed at anything. And my mother’s a victim of all of it. Of course, by now, I can see how literally every single thing described her. It’s all projection. Every negative trait she somewhere deep down knows is hers, but is too ashamed of, can be put on me. A strong scapegoat to carry what’s she’s too weak to face.

And I suppose I’ll take the compliment: I am strong.

I have many moments of forgetting, indifference. Of finally being able to focus on myself. That is most of my life now. And then I don’t wish she was dead, I just think of her as not existing, to me. But then I read a diary entry, and truthfully: I want her to die. This random woman I was so unlucky to have to call my mother, who ruined my life, destroyed all my younger selves, and got every family member to be on her side. The woman who smiled when we heard my dad had died, and thought I didn’t see it, and quickly stopped herself before anyone caught her, or so she thinks. The woman who time and time again created a little army to fight me so hard I wanted to die - and then when I expressed that, said ‘if that’s what you want, you should do it.’

I hope I never again meet someone that evil. And I hope I can eventually forget she exists at all.