My Box of Secrets
The Hardest Truth of All
"My mother is an uncontrolled, violent alcoholic with undiagnosed mental illnesses, and I feel guilty for hating her to death for it."
This also goes hand in hand with another card in my box, so you guys get a two-for-one and a longer chapter.
"I lived through high school with bruises and injuries all from my mother. I was embarrassed to have company. It wasn't uncommon to break funiture or windows, either..."
It started when I was thirteen years old. I was already quiet, introverted and never spoke to anyone who didn't already know me or my mother. The only friends I had at this point were kids who knew what my mom was like, and they never stayed at my house. My mother would go out and get drunk leaving me at home with my youngest sister. The usual routine was she would come home and lecture me about weird shit I didn't care about, like sex, drugs and boys, and usually at three am when I was half asleep. Then she'd get mad because I wasn't paying attention. Dude, I'm thirteen, I'm half-asleep and I DON'T CARE. It only progressed from there. Soon after, she started talking to my sister's dad again (we all have different daddies. Jerry Springer, anyone?) which was always trouble, becasue my mother loves to start shit and they always fought. As in, fist fights and arguments that usually led to Cleveland Police being called by the neighbors. (We were on a first name basis with cars 112 and 113 I believe, for teh longest time as well.) Once when I was probably like, ten, we were at his house on the east side and he kicked us out in the middle of winter. I had to pee and he wouldn't let us back in, so my mom put her hand through his back door window and unlocked the door herself. anyway, this leads to the rest. I always thought my sister's dad was psychotic, but when I hit 13, I realized it was my mom. It started with the lectures and moved onto waking me up at weird hours to do things she forgot I did already, like taking out the garbage and shit. The arguments turned into shoving matches, and by the time I was sixteen, we had regular boxing matches. I got tired of dealing with her shouting and partying until six am on school nights. once I got older I started getting pissed about her behavior and the way she treated me (like a slave) and that's when the real fights started.
Once, when I was 16, we were making easter dinner and she was out of alcohol. She wanted more and was already six sheets to the wind, so I told her boyfriend if he left to buy her more beer, he wasn't coming back. He refused to get in the middle of it, so she started screaming at me that I wasn't her boss. I said she couldn't even stand up staright and she didn't need anymore beer and that led to her swinging at me. I pushed her away from me (she was wearing high heels) and she fell on the floor. I went to walk away, because I knew where this was going, and she grabbed my ankle, causing me to fall and hit my face on the back of the counter. It didn't take much to set me off those days; usually I was ready for a fight with her. Anyway, I turned around and punched her in the face. She reached forward and grabbed my hair. At that time it was down to my waist (at least) and thick, so it wasn't hard. She pulled as hard as she could, dragging me to the floor with her. I remember smacking her in the face as hard as I could and screaming "let go!". She refused and so I grabbed her hair and started jerking on it as hard as I could while I was still smacking her. She started hitting me back and when I wouldn't let go (I was screaming "how do you fucking like it!? by this time) she grabbed my shirt, pulled me up and bit my thigh as hard as she possibly could. And to kick it off, she refused to release me. She bit me until I finally kneed her in the face and her boyfriend pulled us apart. I wound up grabbing my jacket and leaving the house, walking about fifteen blocks to my grandmother's house. I had a mouth shaped bruise on my thigh for at least three months. (complete with a space from where she was missing her two front teeth.) Not to mention hair loss and a black eye. (You should've seen her.)
I realized she was mentally ill when I started Medical school. Her symptoms were right on, and it's been decided that she's paranoid bipolar manic depressive with homicidal tendancies. Seriously. She's followed boyfriends after they've left her and started shit wherever they went. And then the drinking. Non stop and constant. I had to move back in with her in Oct. 05, and I moved back out in Apr. 06. In that timespan, we fought seven times and I gave her her first panic attack. (She was trying to rip the house phone out of my ear and swinging at me, so kicked her in the chest as hard as I could.) We even fought the first Saturday I was back home. She put me through the storm door that night too. Then we almost fell down the stone front porch steps and wound up in the neighbor's front yard.
In the timespan of our fighting matches (I used to scream, "Round one, fight!" at her when she was pissing me off), we've broken two storm doors, numerous glasses and dishes, a table, and a screen door. And she wonders why I got drunk at my best friend's house with her and her mother playing quarters with captain morgan's coconut rum when I was fifteen. Maybe. I might have still been fourteen then. Her mom was fun. But only at home with adults. Anyway, it explains why I hate her and why I lose patience with her so easily. Crazy bitch. Still feel guilty because she's my mother...but I can't help it. Comments? Questions? Want to hear the other crazy stories I could tell you about fights with her? You know what to do...
This also goes hand in hand with another card in my box, so you guys get a two-for-one and a longer chapter.
"I lived through high school with bruises and injuries all from my mother. I was embarrassed to have company. It wasn't uncommon to break funiture or windows, either..."
It started when I was thirteen years old. I was already quiet, introverted and never spoke to anyone who didn't already know me or my mother. The only friends I had at this point were kids who knew what my mom was like, and they never stayed at my house. My mother would go out and get drunk leaving me at home with my youngest sister. The usual routine was she would come home and lecture me about weird shit I didn't care about, like sex, drugs and boys, and usually at three am when I was half asleep. Then she'd get mad because I wasn't paying attention. Dude, I'm thirteen, I'm half-asleep and I DON'T CARE. It only progressed from there. Soon after, she started talking to my sister's dad again (we all have different daddies. Jerry Springer, anyone?) which was always trouble, becasue my mother loves to start shit and they always fought. As in, fist fights and arguments that usually led to Cleveland Police being called by the neighbors. (We were on a first name basis with cars 112 and 113 I believe, for teh longest time as well.) Once when I was probably like, ten, we were at his house on the east side and he kicked us out in the middle of winter. I had to pee and he wouldn't let us back in, so my mom put her hand through his back door window and unlocked the door herself. anyway, this leads to the rest. I always thought my sister's dad was psychotic, but when I hit 13, I realized it was my mom. It started with the lectures and moved onto waking me up at weird hours to do things she forgot I did already, like taking out the garbage and shit. The arguments turned into shoving matches, and by the time I was sixteen, we had regular boxing matches. I got tired of dealing with her shouting and partying until six am on school nights. once I got older I started getting pissed about her behavior and the way she treated me (like a slave) and that's when the real fights started.
Once, when I was 16, we were making easter dinner and she was out of alcohol. She wanted more and was already six sheets to the wind, so I told her boyfriend if he left to buy her more beer, he wasn't coming back. He refused to get in the middle of it, so she started screaming at me that I wasn't her boss. I said she couldn't even stand up staright and she didn't need anymore beer and that led to her swinging at me. I pushed her away from me (she was wearing high heels) and she fell on the floor. I went to walk away, because I knew where this was going, and she grabbed my ankle, causing me to fall and hit my face on the back of the counter. It didn't take much to set me off those days; usually I was ready for a fight with her. Anyway, I turned around and punched her in the face. She reached forward and grabbed my hair. At that time it was down to my waist (at least) and thick, so it wasn't hard. She pulled as hard as she could, dragging me to the floor with her. I remember smacking her in the face as hard as I could and screaming "let go!". She refused and so I grabbed her hair and started jerking on it as hard as I could while I was still smacking her. She started hitting me back and when I wouldn't let go (I was screaming "how do you fucking like it!? by this time) she grabbed my shirt, pulled me up and bit my thigh as hard as she possibly could. And to kick it off, she refused to release me. She bit me until I finally kneed her in the face and her boyfriend pulled us apart. I wound up grabbing my jacket and leaving the house, walking about fifteen blocks to my grandmother's house. I had a mouth shaped bruise on my thigh for at least three months. (complete with a space from where she was missing her two front teeth.) Not to mention hair loss and a black eye. (You should've seen her.)
I realized she was mentally ill when I started Medical school. Her symptoms were right on, and it's been decided that she's paranoid bipolar manic depressive with homicidal tendancies. Seriously. She's followed boyfriends after they've left her and started shit wherever they went. And then the drinking. Non stop and constant. I had to move back in with her in Oct. 05, and I moved back out in Apr. 06. In that timespan, we fought seven times and I gave her her first panic attack. (She was trying to rip the house phone out of my ear and swinging at me, so kicked her in the chest as hard as I could.) We even fought the first Saturday I was back home. She put me through the storm door that night too. Then we almost fell down the stone front porch steps and wound up in the neighbor's front yard.
In the timespan of our fighting matches (I used to scream, "Round one, fight!" at her when she was pissing me off), we've broken two storm doors, numerous glasses and dishes, a table, and a screen door. And she wonders why I got drunk at my best friend's house with her and her mother playing quarters with captain morgan's coconut rum when I was fifteen. Maybe. I might have still been fourteen then. Her mom was fun. But only at home with adults. Anyway, it explains why I hate her and why I lose patience with her so easily. Crazy bitch. Still feel guilty because she's my mother...but I can't help it. Comments? Questions? Want to hear the other crazy stories I could tell you about fights with her? You know what to do...