part 110, or "seriously - go to hell."

I really love being able to say things that I really want to say - things I used to be too scared to say. They are still scary things to say, but not too scary.

I've been writing a lot about my mom and my brother and sister, and every time I go to post another blog that says something negative about any of them, I stop and think "what are you doing? Are you crazy?" I'm thinking of how my mom and sibs might react to what I am saying and putting out there. I wonder about the harm it may do to them, or to me, or to all of us.

What if my mom's clients read this, and know who I am, and stop using her services? I mean, she LOVES making money, and what if I am getting in the way of that? How mad is she going to be with me?

My mom almost died once. She got really, really sick and when she went to the doctor, he gave her antibiotics that she wasn't even able to swallow. That doctor was a real prick - literally standing with one foot out the door.

So I took her to the hospital. She was in ICU for a couple of days, and then had to stay in bed for a while after that to get her strength back up before she could go back to work. It was very scary - I really thought she was going to die.

She wouldn't talk about it, though. She brushed off her brush with death, and kept on going along about how much money she was losing by not working.

Just before I "broke up" with my mom, she was talking about this big trip to Greece she was taking with her husband to celebrate my dad's death. Okay, I actually do not know if that is accurate or not, but they did use the money from my dad's life insurance policy to fund it.

When she talked about it, she didn't talk about being excited to go, or how nice it would be to be away, or what her vacation wardrobe was going to be, or how it was amazing to have the means to make the trip in the first place.

She lamented on how much work she was going to miss, and how much money she was going to lose.

I don't remember if I ever wrote about this before, but when I first started having the flashbacks about the sexual abuse and my therapist said I needed to go to the mental hospital, I kind of panicked, because I certainly could not afford such a luxury. But speaking with my therapist about it got me to the realization that my mom was going to pay for it, and if she didn't, I was going to go to everyone in her family and ask them for help paying for it.

My mom has means. Her idea of "broke" is having thousands of dollars in investments, and a six-figure retirement savings account, and full ownership of a $300,000 house, and access to plenty of money, but making all of these things more of a priority in her spending than having fun, or anything irresponsible like that. She's the martyr.

Granted, she had a rough time growing up, and living with a sadistic sociopath for thirty years was probably a bit testy at times. Not even to mention having to raise me - the belligerent, drugged out, slutty daughter that I was. She already owns the American Dream, though. Must she really consider herself in dire financial straits because she doesn't have a condo in Florida or an airplane to fly down there, and the next door neighbor does?

She really must. She has quite a talent of balancing victimization with triumph, real or imagined. She can think about all the horrible things she's been through, and how hard she's had to work, and all she wants is a measly trip to Greece (or a new coat, or a car, or a refrigerator, etc.), so she's going to spend the money on herself, dammit, and not feel guilty about it.

I mean, wouldn't it just be easier to go buy a coat? Or go on a trip? Or replace the 30 year old refrigerator? She will spend hundreds of dollars on something, then bring it home and say, "I saved this much money on this thing because I got it on sale, so I had to buy it," and she will feel proud because she didn't just spend hundreds of dollars on herself, she actually really got money back because of the sale price.

I wonder if she was this way about money with my brother and sister. I don't know.

Anyway, after that talk with my therapist about going to the mental hospital, I went to my mom's house and told her that my dad sexually abused me, and that I wanted to go to a mental hospital, and I wanted her to pay for it, and I didn't ever want to pay her back.

She said, "I don't know what you think I'm made of," referring to the large expense I was asking her to acquire and implying that she was not "made" of money. So I told her my backup plan of going to her brothers and telling them what happened to me growing up, and asking them to help me pay for my hospitalization.

She changed her mind about paying for it pretty quickly. She said, "alright, I'll figure it out."

And she did - she was really great, and I only saw how she was there for me in such a substantial way when I really needed it. I chose not to acknowledge the part where I had to pretty much blackmail her to get her to do it, and I chose to ignore the $10,000 receipts she kept giving me "for my records."

I chose to look past the part where she actually had to make herself cry when I told her what my dad did to me.

I chose to look past the part where she said over and over, "I'll do anything you need," and then didn't.

I chose to ignore the part where she didn't do anything -ANYTHING- when I told her what the neighbors had done to me.

I chose to look past the part where I felt the anger and betrayal and knew she did something to me, and I knew where she did it, but couldn't quite remember what it was, and she got really pissed and defensive when I asked her about it.

This list could go on and on and on. It really could - I keep thinking of new ways she dicked me over before I even finish writing down the last.

And I still ask myself, "what are you doing? Are you crazy?" before I publicize anything she might be offended by.

Why do I do that?

Then I think of what she did to me to "prove" her "loyalty" to my dad, of how she hurt me in order to get points in a relationship that was nothing more than a giant mind game, and it doesn't matter why I do that or not.

If I hesitate to say something that might offend my brother, I think of him telling me that he is a human lie-detector so my mom couldn't possibly be lying, which meant that I was fabricating all of my accusations against her because I am "just like him," (referring to, of course, our monster of a father).

If I hesitate to say something that might offend my sister, I think of her trying to convince me that what I was saying couldn't possibly be true, and then trying to convince me that I'd had a "psychotic break," and that no, what I told her our mother did to me did not make her concerned for the welfare of her own daughters, my nieces.

And I think of all that pain I felt toward them, and remember that no, I don't give a shit if anything I write may cause my mom to lose her income, and no, I don't give a shit if anything I write might make my brother wonder if its actually him that's like our dad, and no I don't give a shit if anything I write might make my sister look bad in the eyes of the world.  

And then I wonder about the legal ramifications they could have against me, and remember that we live in the United States of America, where fathers rape and sell their daughters, and mothers sacrifice their children to save themselves, and where siblings are hurt, too, but choose not to see it, and so side with their abusers, AND where I am free to write all I want about it and publish it any way I want, because it is ALL TRUE.

I'm getting a little patriotic now. It must be getting close to the 4th of July.