Goodbye, Mom (edit)

My mom calls every Sunday. WE have the same conversation.

This time when she calls I will not answer. I also will not answer when she calls back on Monday. On Tuesday I will inform my psychiatrist of my decision. He and my therapist will be my only support until I meet new friends. I suppose, when I write this, it means I don’t want Evelyn Krueger to be my friend anymore. Sophie Chang would point out to me that that’s not fair to Evelyn, since Evelyn is my best friend.

When I first wrote this, I was 33 years old. I have not spent a single day not thinking about my mom. I wonder how much normal people think about their mothers. I think that, though I was physically in my thirties, emotionally I was about twelve. Maybe even two. I was throwing a temper tantrum. It might have been interpreted by anyone who saw it as a sign that I was suicidal. That was not the case, though. It was only me being a spoiled brat. I deserved the unhappiness that I got.

When my dad got custody of us after the divorce, my grandmother told me that when we weren't there anymore mom would just lie on the bed and cry. I was 8 years old. My younger brother was 4. There was nothing I could have done that would have changed the judge’s decision to award my father the majority of the custody for us. He looked at the facts, listened to all sides, and determined that my father was the fitter parent. It’s too bad that my mother’s feelings were hurt by that, but that’s just the way it goes.

It occurs to me that I’m assuming the judge was male. It might have been a female judge. I think, though, that the judge must have been a white male. If it had been a woman, or a person of color, I’m sure I never would have heard the end of it, in the same way I never heard the end of it when she told me about the young, attractive black judge and attorney who exchanged flirtatious glances, in her opinion, and congratulatory looks, while presiding over the case in which a family friend in Olney, TX, was accused by his ex-wife of molesting their daughter.

I am taking a college-level art class. I know I have a lot of talent and my own vision by the comments I get from my teacher. She says I have my own unique drawing style. She can recognize my drawings by just looking at them without seeing my name. These days, though I’m tired of hearing people say, “Interesting!” when I show them my drawings. I think I shouldn’t show people my drawings anymore. My initial reason for showing all kinds of people my drawings was to get over a Navajo artist named Tony Begay who would probably say I’m writing nasty crap about him if he read this. But, then, he’s dyslexic, so he’s not going to read it, and I’ve given him a different name. Since he won’t read it, it’s kind of like the Amish objecting to Weird Al Yankovic’s song “Amish Paradise.”

“I just want to say to all you Amish out there,” he starts off, like he’s about to apologize or say he didn’t mean to offend them, “You shouldn’t be watching TV!”

I'm at work, so I won't write any more. Probably a good idea, since abusing the Internet at work eventually caused me to be fired. See, it’s my fault. All my fault. I had a bullshit excuse to spend too much time blogging about my mother at work. So I did, instead of steeling myself, to get the job done and “Get the Hell out,” like a co-worker who stole computers said she did.

“You’re here to earn a paycheck,” she’d say, “so suck it up.”

I am not going to talk to mom.

I am going to cut her off.

Just to prove I can.

I will not talk to her tomorrow evening.

I will see how it goes when she doesn't hear from me.

If she really loves me, she will understand.

She will not think it's fair.

I will tell my therapist about this.

I know I said I wouldn't write any more before. Now I really will stop.

Good, bitch. Just shut up. Because no one was ever listening to you whine anyway.

What a fucking angry loser girl you turned out to be. You didn’t love your mother, and now your mother is dead. You are a waste of space. It was a waste to get to know you. It was a waste to try. There is no point in trying to dialogue with people who are different than you. Everyone is different in some ways, and the same in some ways.

I just got back from a meeting with my case manager.

That’s about it. Nothing more to say about it, really.

I was the one who got to tell her goodbye. Place my hand on her cold forehead. Hearing is the last sense to go.