Huh?

Based on the fact that she is my Mother, and wasn’t present in any way, shape or form throughout my youngest days, she has been glorified in my heart and my mind somehow; in my mind over time, she has morphed into some painted-faced Goddess with great power and control over my actions and sense of self; she continues to have the carrot to dangle before me, and I continue to focus on it and follow her lead.
She is my Mother, yes – but she is not right in the head, and never was – so I’m told…she never had any business having babies of her own with a head as twisted as hers – never had the stuff it takes to be somebody’s Mama. My Mother doesn’t really know how to care about other people; she is just hard-wired that way…some people call it sociopathy, others call narcissism; she’s a diagnosed paranoid schizophrenic – she has the history of getting way out there at times, if not medicated and monitored regularly by a “specialist”. She is aggressive and violently explosive in her mental instability; this is the trait about her that she has most impressed upon me throughout my lifetime in observation of her behaviors; she is ruthless when it suits her needs – I have bared witness to this many times, as well as played the role of her “victim” during such instances also.
I cannot trust her word – it is mud in my book; despite what she says, her actions always speak horribly louder than what she tells me. Anyway, our relationship is the epitome of awkward and edgy, because it newborn for the most part – I am only barely getting to know her, I’ve never made the effort in the past. She is a nut job, no doubt – and oftentimes, when I have a conversation with her, I find myself hardly able to control myself from just bursting out:
“The fuck are you talking about, Man?!!!”
I just can’t relate to any of the things that define the daily existence of my Mother, Willow…she is seriously on another planet in my opinion…all I can do is just shake my fucking head over it, I suppose.

…and You Turn Yourself Around…That’s what it’s All About.

PREFACE:

In my “pack” family growing up, my Dad, my Papa, any immediate uncles and aunts, as well as “The Originals” (my older set of brothers) had a ditty that they used to chant whenever anything involved myself, my younger brother, or my brother who precedes me by 19 months – in combination with our lovely mother – “The Shawnee Mommy” – performed to the tune of the Hokie-Pokie. I am sure you can imagine the verses they came up with for each body part when it came to her (they each disliked her intensely). They would regularly lineup like the fucking Temptations or something and sing shit like:

“You got a Shawnne Mommy,

and she’s comin’ to the house!..

That’s what it’s all about – stomp stomp”


STOMP. STOMP.

On my way home this evening, I dropped by my parents’ house unexpectedly (when I refer to my “parents” in the current context, I am always referring to my mother and step-dad, unless otherwise stated for some whack-ass reason that I cannot conjure up). I needed to speak to my step-dad about some stuff that my mother can not be bothered with, as she continues to grieve the loss of my grandmother very, very deeply and perpetually. For the loss she is struggling so mightily to cope with, I am genuinely saddened for my mother; I know that she and my grandmother were always very close, somehow – despite my mother’s lifelong shortcomings as an unstable individual against a solidly founded Tribe. For whatever reasons though, my mother (Willow) maintained a loyalty and closeness to her Mom, my grandma Joey (NOT of Tannuea ‘s clan – she’s my mother’s paternal grandmother), that stands in stark contrast to ANY and EVERY other relationship throughout her entire time alive. I realize she is mourning and grieving and feeling always without. And like I said, for that, I feel sorry for her, indeed.

Now, before I lose a handful of followers and possibly even a few of my friends by describing the events that followed my surprise appearance at her home earlier today, I could launch into a seminar-style presentation in my own defense regarding the many, many, many forces that drive my love/hate relationship with Willow i.e the time that she chucked a plastic shopping bag of canned peaches at my face while I sat unable to defend myself in my hospital bed of webbed tubing (she did this because Security had asked her to leave due to her shockingly venomous behavior towards a newly relocated patient moved to the trauma/burn unit from ICU) – – – I could emphasize the fact that she actually got sent away to a “Pre-Reagan State Hospital” as an alternative sentence to PRISON for smothering me with my own pillow when I was still an infant in a crib because she

“was tired and I was crying non-stop, and [she] couldn’t find David…”(my father)

I could go into detail about any of my many memories of her Leño’d out, drunken, psychopathic boyfriends chasing her to my Dad’s house – her children’s house – out of diabolically jealous entrapment on her part (Willow is an Oscar-Winning Drama Queen), and wound up creating situations in which any one of my older set of brothers (who were not born to her) or my Dad – interchangeably – were arrested and taken away from me because of her bullshit pot-stirring. I could go on and on about my issues with her, how she slept every one of boyfriends she could get her hands on throughout my late teens, including The Ripper, I am thoroughly convinced and always have been. But fuck it, I won’t bother with the bore of it all. I can sum my mother up pretty well with tonight’s triggering event upon her sending me down her hallway to find her husband at the back of the house, because she was too pre-occupied by doing nothing at the time.

As I was walking down the (admittedly unfamiliar) hallway of of my mother’s house, what did I see in a fucking frame on the wall to my left, hung proudly amongst the photos of my very bloodline, other than this lovely triggering memory hanging in my fucking face like a fucking freshly dead carcass had been framed in silver trim:

(The above photo is purposely lacking in image quality, but the point remains the same) THIS IS THE RIPPER AND I. Circa 1999

(The above photo is purposely lacking in image quality, but the point remains the same)
THIS IS THE RIPPER AND I.
Circa 1999

And so, yes…I blew the fuck up on her – – – once again…

I just can’t understand her thinking, no matter how many times I try, or in what ways, or with what empathy…she is just an unnecessarily antagonistic and cruel creature with no clue of her own influence over a child that she bore…way back when.

Fuck, my mother is so clueless, it hurts me.