I love my mother, but I can’t stand when she visits. As I write this post, she is in the middle of telling me that I’m living in the middle of a filthy, stinking pile. She is telling me that my living quarters are disgusting and that I’m living in the kind of disgusting mess that you see on TV. She is also telling me not to blame it on my depression because, “She’s been there and done that.” My mother doesn’t understand depression. She has never experienced clinical depression and if she did than she would’ve known that berating a depressed person and constantly yelling at them to get up and do things doesn’t help them get out of depression. If anything it just makes the depression worse.
I was fine with my living quarters. It was actually very neat. But I guess it wasn’t up to my mother’s standards. I didn’t think that it would be a big deal because she is staying in a hotel this visit with her boyfriend. In the space of five minutes, this woman just made me feel like a worthless piece of shit. I need to get out of this woman’s house. I was never happier than when I was living 5 hours away from her.