I Might Actually Be A Bad Person

Like, seriously. I might be one of the worst people. Not because I find good-hearted racism funny, and not because I generally hate people (I mean, who doesn’t?) but because I am home with my bedridden mother and I don’t want to be here. I am ashamed to even be telling you all this, but I feel like I need to explain myself to someone, anyone who will listen. You don’t have to care and you don’t have to keep reading if you’re over me right now. Trust me, I understand when you read something that seems like whinny bullshit you just want to say get over yourself and keep moving but, this is just a venting session guys and I don’t blame you if you don’t want to hear it. We all have our own problems and mine don’t have to burden your minds. But here goes.

My mother and I have what you might call a complicated relationship. Not like, we had our rough patches and we are constantly on unstable ground, more like she was an addict for most of my life, fell for an abusive man, and then followed another to the place I now call home. He was cheating on her and they are no longer together. She has this brilliant way of playing the martyr for everyone and reminding me and my sisters that we are both the best and worst thing that ever happened to her (depending on what kind of drunk she is). She was a mess, not prepared or fit to be a mother to anyone, and she had four daughters. I love her but…there is a part of me that hates her too. I think all the happy memories I have are when she’s not there. But she didn’t leave us, she could have, but she didn’t. And I am grateful for that. I will admit the good things she’s done, even when they weren’t for me or my sisters. But she was so wrong in so many areas it’s hard to not be resentful sometimes.

I dreamed of the days when I could leave this house and live a happy life away from all the drama and fear of good things crashing down around me to reveal the pain waiting just around the corner. That’s not all my mother’s fault. I’m a worrier, it’s what I do. I mean yeah, bad stuff did tend to barge in and destroy a nice moment but I never gave myself much of a chance to enjoy them in the first place. But I was finally walking out the door. I was finally doing things on my own and gaining the freedom I had desperately hoped for, and then she got sick. Well, first she had a gastric bypass and lost a lot of weight and i decent portion of her stomach. Then she had one of her mental breakdowns and tried to kill herself, or threatened too (we aren’t sure what happened but didn’t want to risk it so we sent her to a mental help facility) then she was ok, which is a loop she falls into. Then she got sick again, had a hole in her stomach because she kept drinking like she had a normal size stomach and she had to have more removed. Now she’s steadily losing weight, she has bouts of immense pain and when she should go to the hospital she sits around the hospital and complains to me about it. I can’t help her because I don’t know how and this is insane and I know it but, part of me feels like she’s doing this on purpose, trying to stay here as much as she can so force me to stay. Like I said, I know that idea is insane and partially comes from the part of me that hates her.

I hate myself for feeling the way I do about this situation. I do understand that she is really in pain, and I do want her to get better. But that irrational part of me is still angry about the whole situation. I just wish so many things hadn’t happened and this situation wasn’t what it was. That’s mainly what all this is. i’m so angry she didn’t take better care of herself. She just keeps getting skinnier and I’m angry at her, because she’s in pain and she didn’t have to be, because she’s getting skinnier and she didn’t have to be. I’m just so angry she couldn’t listen and stop drinking…and I can’t do anything to help. And she won’t let me call anyone to help. And I’m angry with her,and I’m pretty sure I’m an actual bad person. People joke about it all the time but I think I’m really just a bad person.


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