That Wretched Woman

It’s official. I hate my mother.  I hate her. We have only been living together for two weeks and I hate her and I don’t want to speak to her or see her for at least a year.  If you follow me on Twitter, you have been privy to my rants about my mother.  I hate feeling this way about my mother. It is so complicated. She’s my mother so I will always love her, but they way that she keeps attacking me, the way that she flips every disagreement (no matter how small) to a dig about my weight, devastates me. I hate her.

For those of you new that are new to my blog, let me provide you with some backstory. I lost my job teaching at Penn State University Park in 2011. I could no longer afford to pay my rent on my apartment in State College. I didn’t have any other prospects. I had to move to Philadelphia to live with my mother or I would have found myself homeless.I wanted to move to Philadelphia anyway because the job market is bigger and because my family lives here.  My mother wasn’t living here at the time but she was displeased. Mother didn’t want me to invade her space. I can understand that. My sister and her family have been living in my mother’s house for five years and with me in the basement, my mother would have no space in her own home.  My mother was living most of the month in Boston, where she was working.  She would come home once a month. I felt bad because I was taking up my mother’s private space (her bedroom is in the basement) in her own home. But I also knew that I didn’t have much of a choice.

My mother lost her position a few weeks ago and had to move back into her home. My sister and I immediately made plans to get out. Neither of us wants to live with my mother. I felt bad for my mother because this is her house and she sleeps on the couch.  I have done everything that she has asked me to do because of that. Last weekend, my mother decided to clean the entire house. Trisha, had already spent two days cleaning the kitchen, but it wasn’t good enough for my mother, so she spent a day reorganizing and cleaning and complaining loudly. Then she decided to tackle the basement.

I’m a messy person. I am. I don’t have the cleanest living space in the whole world, but my dirty clothes are in hampers and my floor is clear and I have every thing somewhat put away. Mind you, I don’t have space to put my things. There are cupboards down here, but they are filled with my mother’s clothes. There is a huge closet down here, but that is full of my mother’s clothes. I have bought plastic drawers and two foot lockers to keep my clothes in.  Most of my possessions are in storage.  My mother reorganized the basement less than a year ago and I have done my best to maintain her organizational system.  But last weekend, all of sudden, it wasn’t good enough.

My mother raged at me last weekend and I do mean raged. All of a sudden I was a hoarder with a deep mental disorder because not all of my laundry was done. My mother had taken some of my possessions during last year’s great reorganization and put them in some cupboards. This year she was appalled that I still had them. She was appalled that I was holding on to them and declared that I was a pack rat. This basement is infested with roaches. There were roaches when I came here, but they tend to multiply in the summer and they love clutter. My mother decided that the roach infestation was my fault. My mother discovered that her bathroom sink was leaking and the shower was leaking which was causing water damage on the floor in the bathroom and she actually wept.  When she finished that day she was irate. I was ordered to clean up the area around my bed and to clean up the rest of the basement because, “it was disgusting” and “she hadn’t raised me to live like that” and “I must have deep mental problems to be okay with living this way.”

I was upset, but quite frankly, I’m used to my mother abusing me and I’m used to her abusing me about how messy I am.  I washed all of my clothes and removed some of my possessions to my car in order to create more space. I tidied up my possessions in my sliver of the basement. I swept. Things were tidy. The next day, my mother began her great reorganization of her closet. Within hours, the basement was covered in garbage bags full of stuff and her clothes were all over the place. I didn’t say anything, but I was annoyed. She had given me so much shit about getting the basement presentable so that she could call a plumber in to fix the bathroom, but then she turned around and obliterated the basement again. I kept my mouth shut though. This is my mother’s house and without her I would be homeless.

My mother has been reorganizing, purging her closet (she has a self admitted addiction to shopping) all week. I’ve been keeping quiet and plotting my escape. My resume writing business is finally making money. I have a new job at Sylvan Learning Center and I have two more lucrative writing jobs in the works(hopefully). My plan is to get out of my mother’s basement by November 1st. Although, if I happen upon a windfall, it will be much sooner.

My mother has been bugging me about cleaning up around the bed. I have. I have removed all the plastic bottles that had slipped in around the crevices, but I hadn’t put any new sheets on the bed or put away a few bits of clothing, because I didn’t figure there was much of  a point when I’m living in the middle of a cess pit that my mother created. When my mother attacked me for not making up the bed yesterday, I kind of told her so. I said, “Ma, how can you talk to me about making up the bed when you have the basement looking like this?”

She flipped out.  She blamed me for the fact that the basement was a mess. She blamed me for being 39 years old and living in her house. She blamed me for trashing her basement (I’m still trying to figure out what damage I did beside having dirty clothes and some stuff with no space to put it.). She told me that I’m a hoarder and that I need to see someone about my problems. She told me that I wasn’t raised to live this way. She told me that I didn’t care about her because all I do is sleep all day and that I’m going to die and that she has already had to bury her husband and now she will have to bury her daughter too. She said that the reason that the basement, her basement, looked like this was because of me.  She reiterated that I didn’t care about her and that I was going to die soon because I lay around all day.  Then she burst into tears.  When she left the basement. I started crying.  I showered and dressed and went to work and tried to keep from crying.

I hate my mother because when I disagree with her, she attacks me and she says the cruelest things that she can think of to hurt me. She truly and genuinely wants to hurt me. She also always manages to find a way to work my weight into her attack somehow. When I was younger (and significantly less fat) she would tell me that I would never get a boyfriend because I was so fat.  She would say things along those lines. Now that I’m older and I obviously have functioned just fine without a boyfriend, she uses my health to get at me.

As I posted last week, my health is fine. My bloodwork revealed that I don’t have diabetes, but prediabetes (which is reversible). My cholesterol is good. My blood pressure is good. My weight has caused some tendonitis in my knee. My heart is strong  and I know this because I have had several EKGs in the past few months (thank you panic attacks) and my mother knows all of this, because I have told her. So where does she get off telling me that I’m going to die, because she doesn’t think that I move enough?

I have told my mother about the tendonitis in my knee. That is why I had to stop going to the gym. It is hard for me to walk and it is so serious that the doctor wants me to get physical therapy. I have also informed my mother that I want to return to Weight Watchers because I do want to lose some weight, although, not nearly as much as she thinks I should.  My point is that she knows all of these things, but as soon as we have a disagreement or she gets angry, she throws my weight in my face and tries to destroy me with it.

That is evil. I’m at the point that when I move out of this wretched woman’s house, I probably won’t speak to her for at least a year. She is not allowed to speak to me about my weight point blank period. Now for those of you who are thinking that my mother is just concerned for my health, I have to call bullshit. My mother has been putting me down and belittling me about my weight since I was eight years old.  She has always made me feel like I wasn’t shit because of my weight and I’m sick of it. Yesterday, I wanted to scream at her how much I hated her. Today, I just wish that I had money. I would take my cat to a hotel or a short term apartment and just be done, but I can’t do that, not yet anyways. My mother is abusive. She is abusive and I don’t deserve to be treated this way just because I’m fat. 

Thanks for Reading,

Karen 

 

 

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