The Unspeakable Parent

I haven’t written about EyeLid Breathing in a while.

Instead I’ve been practicing it. A lot.

Dealing with my mother has become, well more than the problem it was just a few months ago.

My brother suspects she won’t remember our names in six month’s time, if she’s still here.

I talked with my aunt (mom’s sister) yesterday for forty minutes or so. I talked with my brother for the same amount of time. I listened to mom scream and blame me for a myriad of things for at least an hour.

Though it felt like four. And, to be honest, I spent a lot of that time staring at my phone as her voice (indignant and self obsessed as always) streamed from it. Complaining, sarcastic, condemning, mean as hell.

Just like usual.

And I focused, breathed in and out, wondering absently whether I could somehow manage to thrust my hand right into that phone and wrap my fingers around her neck. Making her shut up once and for all.

{Yes I thought that. Haven’t you thought that too, on those rare I Can’t Take It Anymore occasions? Occasions which, I’ve gotta admit it, are becoming all too frequent.}

She was a crazy, mean abusive mother – something I truly believe I’m as over as much as it’s possible to be.

{Though yeal, the bitterness tang lingers on.}

And now – she’s old. Nearing seventy-nine. And age hasn’t mellowed or sweetened her one tiny bit.

Her guile is gone. Her cover is blown. She no longer has the ability to secretly manipulate, to pull those puppet strings from behind the scene.

Yup, her Godfathering days are over.

Now it’s just Her. Pouty, angry, vindictive, belittling, selfish. The Original Victim. Her ability to glaze it over cracked, withered away.

And aren’t some people surprised?

Don’t they stand, mouths wide, staring in shock as mom rants and raves. Showing her true self in all its awful glory.

While there I sit, EyeLid Breathing. Watching calm, seeing nothing I haven’t seen thousands of times before.

Listening, half absent, as she insists my brother move back in with her.

Saying he owes her. Pretending he’s fifteen rather than forty.

Screaming at me Cause I’m On His Side. Sneering. You’re Just Like Your Father.

{Oh the ultimate insult!}

{While I’m thinking Good. At least he wasn’t bat shit crazy mean.}

There’s no victory here. No justice. No feeling of vindication in my mind, knowing at last everyone else knows what I always have.

What, as a child, I was too frightened to say.

As an adult didn’t care to bother with.

{Wish it away. You escaped: Once. Twice. Never to be caught again.}

I listen. I help plan. I read books and articles on How Not To Develop Alzheimer’s

{is it Alzheimer’s? Dementia? Advanced Manipulation? We don’t know.}

Repeating like a mantra day after day for over twenty years: Mothers Don’t Cannibalize Their Children.

Vowing: Never Play The Victim.

The river that is Me.

Breaking through, spilling over, rushing on.

{Intent upon seeing my cup half full.}

Sun rays streaking through, creating a prism.

Breathe in, up, and out slow.

Colors flowing true.