Monster Monday

On December 22nd, right after I finished chatting with one of my besties, the door bell rang.  I ran down, told the dog to quit barking, and signed for the box.  I closed the door and looked to see who sent me a Christmas prezzie.  Only to realize it was my mother, Satan's wife. 

Shit.

I sort of stared at it for a while and tried to decide if I should try to return it to sender or open it.  When she used to send me things in the USPS mail, I would write return to sender and drop them in the nearest post box.  When she stopped writing her return address, I would recognize her handwriting and write it in for her, then in a different ink write return to sender.  But this came UPS and I had already signed for it. 

So I opened it.

The gifts were fine.  Better than they used to be.  Less odd.  More me.  Leading me to once again believe she is reading this blog.  Though I have no specific proof this is the case.  Just a hunch.

Then there was a letter.

A long, multi-page, two-sided, hand-written on a legal pad letter.  Long.  Mostly telling me about herself and her step children* and step grandchildren.  Telling me in particular how golden the golden child still remains.  Predictable.  How they love the golden child's new wife and how much I would like her too.  Unlikely, as we will never meet. 

She also mentioned that one of the gifts reminded her of me because it was "preppy" and that when I was young, she and I had matching Lilly Pulitzer purses.  Further leading me to believe she might be reading this blog.   I honestly cannot imagine her making that whole connection otherwise and using that exact vocabulary. 

She again invited me and a friend to come stay with them for a visit this winter. 

Now that's a special offer to a close friend!  Hey, person I love, come down to Florida for a visit in Hades with Satan himself.  Who shall the lucky winner of that getaway be?  Any takers?

Then at the very bottom of the multi-page note, was one line about knowing she didn't always make the best decisions as a mother and wants to repair them.  I can't remember exactly and at the moment I don't remember where I tucked away the note.  But know that it was one line at the bottom. 

And that is when I started bawling hysterically.  Out of control, gasping for breath, in a ball on the floor, sobbing.  

I so desperately want her to leave Satan and come tell me she loves me and is so sorry for all the things she and he did to me in the past.  For all the lies they blabbed about me and my dad around town.  For taking away my church.  For taking away friends.  For making my childhood a living hell at times. 

I want so badly to know, just for one day in my life, what it feels like to be loved by a mom.

But I know that one off the cuff, slap-in-the-face sentence changes nothing.  It was more a reminder of what I will never have.  It's one thing not to know a mother's love.  But it's another to have a mother tell you to your little face that she will never love you.  It's life-altering in a way that is indescribable.  It takes away a piece of you. 

I had to talk to a friend.  Someone who would tell me it would be OK and that they loved me.  But I couldn't get a hold of anyone.  I finally got Georgia to pick up but I was sobbing so hard that she couldn't understand me.  She thought my dog had died.  She was in the middle of the mall and I knew she would never hear me over the holiday shoppers.  I sent her a quick text explaining and said we could talk later when she was at home and I was able to physically speak again.  I just had to cry it out on my own for a bit.

In a few hours I was totally fine. 

I almost didn't blog about it because I get so nervous writing this stuff down.  I never want people to think I am a.) looking for sympathy or b.) a bad child.  I don't believe I am either.  But I decided to write because I always get a very positive response on here.  I know it helps us all to feel we are less alone and a little less different for everyone.  So for those not yet in the sharing too much on a public blog stage of life, let me be your comfort for a few moments.  Let me assure you that your childhood might have sucked.  But mine did too.  And I totally get that strange as it might seem to say aloud, our common, crappy childhood bond makes us all feel a little bit better.



*I don't believe I've ever mentioned that I actually, technically have two step brothers.  Growing up I was close to the golden child and barely knew the other one.  Golden child of course loves my mother and sent one too many notes to me telling me I was terrible for not speaking to my mother.  Mind you, he knows what went on in that house growing up.  Or knows a good part of it anyway.  But he was and forever will be the golden child.  Can do no wrong.  Worshiped.  Doted on like a King.  The other one is about five years older than me and was considered the polar opposite of the golden child.  Can never do anything right in Satan's eyes.  He had a really extra tough time because of this.  I have not spoken to any of these people in more than a decade.  I plan to go the rest of my life not speaking to them.  Not because any of them are particularly bad.  They are not.  They are good people- I want to be clear about that.  I might still be good friends with golden child (and his wife) if it not for his Satan father.  But I don't trust any of them.  And I value the peace that the final separation from all involved has brought to my life.   A decision I would make again in a heart beat.

**New to the blog?  Just click here to read past Monster Monday posts.  Start at the bottom and work your way up.  Though they are not really in any specific order.