Is it because she hates us? Verbally physically abusive. To feel so alone and unloved. Momma lies big time. Take something and turn it into a huge 3 three circus. And leave out her part in things. Take it with a grain of salt. Now, she will get to play the martyr until death! Oh, her favorite character! She suffers so because of her kids. I think she told me to stop my pity party. PITY PARTY?!?! I am mad not sad. She said I called her a lair. Damn skippy she is a lair, but I didn’t call her that. She got caught in her lies, so she says I’m calling her a lair. What were her children and grandchildren missing that made them want to kill themselves? What did they need?
It’s not a lot of fun to be the blacksheep of the family. Its are even worse if you tell about things that happened to you. You are airing dirty laundry and your family is mad at you for daring to reveal the secrets. When I told my mother about a molestation, she said I should have said something at the time. I said, But momma, my molester told me that I would have gotten in trouble and was afraid to tell. She said, You may have gotten your ass beat but so would she. That was Mothership in its proud moment. My doctor said it was perfectly fine to be angry. Every one got angry and it was not good to stuff it down. My doc. B even said I was right to be angry about things in my family. Doc B did not like my mother and she didn’t like him. I give more credit to Doc B. because he was treating me and my sister, so I guess he knew what was up. My mother tried to stop him in the waiting room to tell him how great full she was for him being my doctor because I have driven her and the rest of the family crazy. Doc just looked at her and walked out. Here was my mother telling everyone in the waiting room I was insane. Doc did not like that one bit. But he wasn’t the first Doc to tell mom they didn’t like her. One told her that he didn’t like her because she lied about how she felt about me. My mother says every time I get mad, Are You Messing With Your Meds? Great cop-out mom. I guess she thinks everything is fine as long as I am too drugged to get mad about the things she has done to me. I have not gone out and physicaly hurt people to vent that anger. That was done to me by my siblings. For daring to tell. I have taken to the written word to vent my angry. Telling about things that happened to me is a way of healing for myself.
My brother was also the black sheep. It was hard living his life. Momma said she could see the devil in his eyes. She never told me she saw the devil in my eyes, but imagine growing up with a mother that thought you were Satan’s spawn. He killed himself. Shot himself in the heart. She said the only reason he killed himself was for self pity. She says he shot himself in the shoulder bone, just trying to get attention from his ex-wives and it wound up killing him. I talked to the coroner. I think that’s nuff said. She sure was calm at his funeral. Nothing is Ever her fault.
My son hanged himself. He was the black sheep grandchild. Momma did not like my son at all when he was born. I was 18 afraid and did not know what to do to care for an infant. I had never held a newborn before he was born. I had to have a c-section and wasn’t suppose to lift anything for a while. When I left the hospital I went to Momma and Daddy’s house. Momma would only touch my son when showing me how to do something. She said he didn’t need to look at her as a mother figure. Now, this is in the few days from the hospital. What she meant was she was not going to hold him like she loved him. After a week, Momma told me to go home and raise my own child, that it wasn’t her duty to raise my son. Wow. I didn’t know how to clean an uncircumcised baby, or how to care for the cord of his belly button. He was hungry all the time. He was allergic to his formula. I didn’t know what to do. This was within the first week or two of his life. And I didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t looking for anybody (momma) to raise my son, I just needed help. My son and I made it thru though. I raised him pretty much by myself. Momma started saying she thought he was gay from the time he was 3 because he hugged his same sex cousin. Yes, at three. She kept it going all his teenage years where she kept describing him as a little “pretty” boy. Whiling she was saying this she did the limp wrist thing with her hand. She and an aunt of mine were talking about how my son had taken things from his cousin and the way she said it . I know my son did bad things. Hell he did things to me. Drugs make you do bad things. After she accidentally told me about the situation, she said Just because he is now dead, you can’t just ignore the bad things he did. I just don’t think it you should get together and bash your grandson after he was dead. But ask her if she has any good memories of him. Go ahead, ask her. While you’re at it, ask if she has any good memories of me. She has none, just like she has no good memories of my brother. The only thing positive my mother has said about me was that I was a good mother because I kept my son dry and he didn’t have diaper rash. But my son did good things too, but all momma remembers about him are bad things. Now don’t get me wrong. None of her other grandchildren EVER did anything wrong and even if they did, it wasn’t talked about. But back to the black sheep grandchild, she used to yell at him for walking on the balls of his feet like his father had. She told him he looked just like his father, which she hated. Oh and I didn’t get any help with the planning his funeral either. Momma had practice in burying a child. Another thing I didn’t know how to do. I had never had to planned a funeral let alone my child’s funeral. The music was picked out at the last minute at the funeral home because I had forgotten to do it. I was in shock. I couldn’t imagine burying my child. No body said anything about helping me with a dress to wear. I drug on what ever was black out of my closet. I looked like I had dressed in the dark in Wal-mart.
Anyway, all of this situation came about again because I wanted the box of family pictures that my mother had brought to me at a July 4th thing 4 years ago. It was at my house. I was hosting the event and at the time, I didn’t have time to look at them, but when her sister, my aunt came in momma said she bought the box to see if anyone wanted them. There were my baby picture, my school pictures, etc. I ask my mother why she gave my pictures to her. Then she said I should have said something then. Then, she denied that it was even my box of picture and said my box was still at her house. I was talking to her on the phone at the time and she told me she had The Box in her lap, I told her to look in the box and see if she could find my baby picture. Or one of my school pictures. Only two baby pictures of me exist. I knew she wouldn’t find it because my aunt had already put it on facebook. She had nowhere to run. That’s when she said I called her a lair and she wasn’t going to talk to me because I call her a lair. Is my mother a lair? You damn skippy she is, but I did not call her that. Then she politely hung up on me. She hung up on me Monday. The whole incident began 4 years ago. Don’t you think if my mother had my box, she would have shoved them up my ass by now? I had asked my mother to call her sister and explain the whole thing so I could have my pictures back. I asked her numerous times over the past 4 years to please just call her. Momma wouldn’t do it. She said if I wanted them back to ask for them myself. So, I did. I explained to my aunt, in an email, about the box of pictures. She remember the box, but did not remember taking the whole box. I know she did and my mother knows she did, because when my aunt left, I turned and looked at momma and said, you let her have my whole box of pictures. She said that I should have said something. Anyway, I digress. My aunt asked me why she would want my baby pictures, school pictures, etc. Then I asked how did you post the one baby picture of my face because the only other picture of me as a baby was the back of a sleeping infant placed on a pillow in the back seat of a car. Then there was the picture of my sister at 3 years old riding her first tricycle. It was taken at home where we grew up. A man called Dave that used to live next door to us called momma’s routine. Feed ’em, beat ’em , bathe ’em and put them to bed.
I just wanted my pictures back. I told my aunt that I wasn’t looking to make hard feelings because my mother told her she had brought the pictures to see if any one wanted them, but that wasn’t what my mother had told me the night before. Mother said she was bringing my pictures to me. I explained all that to my aunt but she said she didn’t take my pictures of my childhood and family life. I wanted all the things I could gather for my granddaughter memories of her father and where he came from. We were poor as church mice growing up, so I didn’t have a lot of pictures of my childhood. All I wanted was the pictures. My mother has hated me for a very long time. The last time I tried to kill my self, there is no medical reason for me being alive, I took massive amounts of pills that should have killed me. I woke up after 3 days in the ICU. They had pumped, dumped and soaked up all the pills they could and waited to see if it would work. I had taken the pills a day before any one found me and should have already been dead. The sheriff wanted me taken to the hospital ward for criminals, because after all, trying to kill yourself is against the law. The paramedics overrode that and had to take me to the closest hospital because I wouldn’t have made it downtown. And guess who never even called the hospital?