The other day, a blog reader asked me about my mom. It occurred to me, I’ve never mentioned her.
My mom passed away in 2002 or 2003, I can’t remember.
I had disowned her about a year or so prior to her death. She was an alcoholic of the particularly mean variety. I was the youngest, and the last child at home. She didn’t really begin drinking until that time, so my siblings weren’t exposed to the same drunk, angry mom that I was. They got the phone version, but not the live, in-person version so much.
Looking back, my mom always had mental health issues. I think her sickness actually manifested itself in the form of having kids. Maybe she thought she could create her own little bubble, maybe she didn’t think about it at all. It’s just ironic; the person who shouldn’t have kids because of her mental illness, has a bucketload of them.
I am the youngest of 6; only 5 of whom grew up in the same household and I never knew #6. Of my 4 siblings, I keep in touch with one. The others have abandoned their children (literally; two of my sisters dropped their kids off with someone and never returned); been heavily involved in drugs or some other illegal activity, spent time in prison, etc.
My mom raised a happy bunch.
My dad married my mom when she had 5 kids. Before they made me, one of those kids went to live with bio dad. Then I was born.
My mom always hated me because she hated my father. She told me this many times. She told me she should have never had me, and honestly she was right. She wasn’t fit to raise any of us, but she did love the others. As my siblings got older, my mom began friendships with them. She wasn’t all bad. She just didn’t love me and she resented the shit out of me because she said I was exactly like my dad.
I always grew up a daddy’s girl. Not only was he kinder to me, but I enjoyed his company more. I was more interested in train stations and museums than I was in Avon or sewing or whatever she was into at the time. I always felt like I was with greatness when I was with my dad. Not in a superfan sort of way; I just remember being VERY young and being VERY aware that I should listen to this man because he had a lot to teach me. It carried into my adulthood right up until the day he died. My dad was always my teacher, my trusted counselor, and my friend. And my mom just hated it so much.
Later in life, my parents split and my mom moved to Southern CA and then Mexico, which was where she was living when she died. My mom was the type of alcoholic that was equally abusive in person or on the phone. If you weren’t right there, she could call and tear you down in seconds. We had a very tumultuous relationship for many years into my adulthood, until I disowned her in 2000. I told her if she sobered up for one year, to call me. A little over a year later, she was gone. She died at the age of 62: Cirrhosis of the liver caused by alcoholism. If her will was any indication, she died very angry at me. That makes me sad for her.
I could honestly write an entire blog all about my mom. It’s not hard for me to talk about as much anymore because so much time has passed. I could tell you stories that you would think I was making up because my life with her was truly so unbelievable on so many levels.
I looked and looked for a photo of her to post, but she died before the digital age was a thing. I finally found an old one in one of my albums, so please forgive the quality. It’s a photo of a photo in an album. I would guess this was taken in the late 80’s.
So there you have it, the story of my mom. 🙂