Making a Peel with the Devil – The Mother

First off, The Mother. A more psychotic, jealous, toxic mess of a woman you could not hope to meet. I find my step-father an easy person to understand…well…easier. Mother died when he was young, father neglected him, formed unhealthy relationships with various temporary women his father brought in and out with the frequency of an alley cat rutting his way through the entire puss collection on offer…you can totally see where the emasculation and need for dominance and power over a vulnerable target came from. Doesn’t make it right, but it does make it something you can get your head around. I’ll never be able to fathom how he acted upon his urges and how he cared not a jot for the onslaught of trauma that he would cause to his victims but the urges I can make sense of.
Her though. She will never ever make sense to me.
Mum was brought up in a very happy, stable environment to two completely normal parents. My Grandfather was the nicest, quietest person you’d ever meet and my Grandmother is a sassy, cantankerous old matriarch with a viper tongue and a heart of gold. Mum has a sister, Karen, who is relatively normal (slutty adulterous tendencies aside) but my mother is enigmatic at best. If you cut her in half a rotting, steaming green slime would seep out of her corpse. And yet there’s a side to me that feels compelled to defend her. When she’s not being utterly rotten, pregnant with soul-destroying jealousy and self-obsessed she’s actually a sweet person who would give a person (well, men) her last penny if she thought it would make them like her.
Much like many girls who are just naturally unhinged, she is one of those clowns who acts like a raging bull when it comes to red flags – never taking heed of the warning signs, just running head first into that man…or boy. As modernity has made this behaviour even easier to indulge in she has spiralled out of all control, or she had the last time I heard anything about her. At the tender age of 21 this was channelled into the genius plan of falling pregnant in an attempt to trap my biological father, Harry. My understanding of the situation, having reflected on the utter tripe I have been fed from both sides, is that Harry was the original fuckboy and Mum was pretty much the definition of a bunny-boiler. I come down more severely on Harry for this as I believe general fuckboyishness turns even the most resilient of women to total cretins, myself included. Mum, not being sound of mind, obviously went hell-for-leather into the realms of craziness. Predictably, the relationship floundered pretty quickly after mum refused the second abortion and I squeezed my cranium out of her expanded cervix into the late 1980s. After 40 stitches and a boyfriend who couldn’t keep his penis out of her friends, I can understand where the resentment towards this new, fleshy burden around her neck began to take shape.
She met my stepfather about two years later. Knowing mum as I do I have no doubt in my mind she oozed her desperation outwards towards him, wafting her vaginal juices forth in an archaic mating ritual. Sadly for her, being mostly into young girls, he was only too happy to leave his wife and baby daughters for this 4ft11 desperado and her female bastard. A couple of short years later, I was adopted and being groomed to within an inch of my life. My brother had bounced into the world and become the apple of my mother’s eye and a wedge had been driven between my step-dad and his ex-family of such magnitude neither the CSA nor his ex-wife had any hope of even the frostiest of reconciliations.
As the years rolled on the resentment emitting from my mother towards me grew and grew. It is now my belief that she naturally hates me – no rhyme or reason to it of any note, just a build-up of things. She dislikes me intensely and I don’t think it helped that my step-father would rather spend his naked moments with nine year old me than her but even prior to that she always found me to be an irritant. I have seen what a doting mother she can be in the way she idolises my brother. But me…she detests with the passion of 1000 burning suns and always has. I can’t say it truly bothered me because I didn’t much care for her either but now I have cut all ties from her it does annoy me that I can’t work out where the hatred specifically came from or is aimed.
As teenagers go, I would say I was pretty delightful. I hadn’t flown off the handle and lost my shit after years of sexual abuse and I was coping well with my step-father’s speedy decline into a tumour-induced death despite not really knowing how to feel about the whole thing. Mum was slutting it up all about town which I endured without too much trouble, though I did actively detest every male she brought into our familial home (dad didn’t live with us after his Radiotherapy caused him to have a hairline mum found to be humiliating). I channelled my energies into my education and school was my escape from the horrors at home. I took my studies seriously and learning came naturally to me. I was a prefect, a senior prefect and I ran for Head Girl but the honour was stolen from me by some hairy knob head who used too much fake tan resulting in wotsit toes. I was pretty much a people-pleaser and a geek but I was funny with it so the cool girls saw my value as the ‘clever one’ and I therefore had an element of popularity. All in all, school was a good time for me.
Now, if you were to listen to my mother’s account of what I was like during this time you would genuinely think I was an angsty teenage horror. Like, seriously, the way she tells it my bedroom was a festering pit (I’m a true Virgoan so I can tell you this is poppycock) and I was a stone’s throw away from injecting heroin into my eyeballs. Once I heard her on the phone actually telling someone I had slapped her round the face and kicked her…I had been at Art Club at the time the alleged incident took place. I wasn’t an angel and we fought verbally like cat and dog. My old neighbour, Helen (who is one of my best friends) can attest to that, but I’d never sully my hand by assaulting her! So I’m going to give you few little highlights from my pocket book of bitterness and you can make your own mind’s up on this one.

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