26 February 2011

Family - Water Is Thicker Than Blood

It is well known and accepted by those who truly know me that I am a firm believer in the "Water is thicker than blood" theory, as well as the "respect is a two way street" theory.

"Family" means nothing to me. My "family" is a pack of rabid fucking hyenas. Actually, that makes hyenas look bad. These people make mangy coyotes look like majestic wolves.

The only blood family who truly accepted me and loved me for who I am died September 27, 2010 at 5:17 a.m. and I wear her around my neck.

My real family are the few close friends I've picked up in my college life.

Furthermore, I will not respect anyone simply because they think they hold some power over me, be it familial, educational or rank. If you want me to respect you, you better goddamn well respect me.

Now to the real point; I am not this 12 year old child that you seem to think I am. I am an adult and I will make my own decisions and live my life the way I see fit. You do not even know me.

If you knew me you wouldn't have had the stupidity to say that I need to go to grief counseling, I need to do this, I need to do that. I already have a fucking parent. I don't need another one.

Dad and I are doing just fine without other people trying to tell either one of us how to fucking live our lives.

Also, for your information - I am seeing a counselor because I felt the time was right. I am looking at a true psychiatrist. I am adjusting my medications because it needed to be done.

I admit that I am a bipolar psychopath, but I have the intelligence and foresight to see it in me and at least attempt to live with it, even if I fail on some days.

I am sitting here laughing my ass off, remembering how you actually had the gall to say you think the bipolar skipped you, but hit everyone else in the family. Blinders on much?

YOU had better not tell me I need to go to grief counseling, or any psychiatric professional without first examining who and what you really are.

Breaking handles on the back of someone, threatening to blister someone's ass because a towel was left on the floor, tearing up a favorite blanket because yours got a fixable rip. That's not including what you do to your honestly developmentally disabled idiot savant child, like putting your hands around his throat when he was helpless in a body cast, the constant screaming at him over trivial matters, trying to do what you can to kill the gift of military history he was given, bitching at him because he eats because he's - omg, a fucking male teenager! Imagine that!

There's also the high manipulation you play on your daughter and every facet of her life, only she's not strong enough to tell you to fuck off so she can be a healthy human being with a healthy family.

Honestly, you remind me of Joan Crawford in "Mommy Dearest."

It's not just her you manipulate. You manipulate, or try to, anyone in your life. You try to manipulate me by telling me what you think I need to do and not do. For instance, we had a heart to heart; actually, I'll just quote from the book I'm in the process of publishing:
    "The following two weeks were pure hell. Hours were spent in the hospital and on the phone with [redacted] and [redacted], until I destroyed the engine in my truck several days into the fiasco, leaving me unable to visit Mom, to be there for her, unable to comfort her. I tolerated [redacted]'s excessive crying and hugging, her intrusions into my personal space, her suffocating me. "We're in this together. We have to be there for each other," she sniffled through her tears. She had decided that I needed to be her rock and that for some reason I needed her to be there for me. I didn't. I already had friends that didn't try to change me, that loved me for who I am, and the only person that I shared DNA with and considered true family was lying in a hospital bed in the building 250 feet away, slowly dying; slowly and painfully leaving my world.
    [redacted] thought she could step in and fill the role of mommy. She always talked to me like I was a child, her child. She was pretending in her delusional mind to dole out advice and try to shape me into a human being that would fit into her idea of what family and the world were supposed to be.
    "I'm gonna tell you like I tell [redacted]. You have GOT to let the abuse go." Right then I knew she had no clue what the hell goes on between my ears. With the exception of this book and the occasional nightmare, I don't let my abuse rule my world. I am not the one that freaks out, cries and overreacts to the thought of, let alone seeing my abusers or someone that looks like them. I am not [redacted].
    I am not [redacted]. I am not her precious do-no wrong [redacted].
    I am not Mom.
    I am me.
    She couldn't accept that. She couldn't accept the fact that I'm a woman in my own right. She couldn't accept that I didn't need her, and I especially didn't need her to be Mom or Dr. Phil to me. She still doesn't understand that I do not hang onto my past in a negative way or for negative reasons, it does not devour me or absorb every waking minute of my life; I keep it around because it shaped me into the persevering warrior I am, and I deeply feel that my words, my story, can help someone break their chains of abuse and heal."
In your eyes the world is fucked up and you're perfect. In the world's view - you need some serious fucking help. You make me look sane, and I'm the one that just got out of the loony bin.

The big difference (aside from everything else) between you and Mom is as simple as this: She saw that she was continuing the cycle of violence, abuse and hatred she was taught. She saw the bullshit she did to me and your nephews. She stopped it and honestly tried to make amends. She changed as a person.

You're still the same meddling busybody. Whatever you say is right, no matter what, and everyone else is wrong. You even had the balls to tell me how to grieve when I had just gotten slammed with the news that Mom was indeed going to die, I couldn't get groceries because Dad wouldn't give me the money, and then my truck died.

You had the stupidity to blast me because I use writing as a coping mechanism and because what I write isn't exactly flowery and purdy. You knew mentioning a certain relative's name triggers me to the point of a violent, blacked out rage, yet while Mom was dying you continuously stabbed me with that, and you STILL tried to force a relationship and tried to force me to change.

And really, what sane person retrieves things at 1 am?

You think I fucking need counseling? Take it from a psychopath herself - You fucking need counseling. You've already ruined 3 kids, and you're working on a fourth.

2 comments:

  1. Wow, she sucks.
    Can you just write her out of your life? I mean, no contact at all, she does not exist? I don't know if that's the answer, but it's what I would do, not that I know anything worth a shit.

    ReplyDelete
  2. I have as little to do with her, and the rest of my family as possible.

    ReplyDelete