Wednesday, April 11, 2012

Super Mega Monster #109

Things have gone from bad to worse, as they tend to do whenever my daughter, the Stainless Steel Amazon, gets involved.   Combine two solid weeks down with the flu, her father going into the hospital for a surprise cardio procedure, and her brothers' snivelling, and all I had to do was walk through her line of vision. 

Once again, as has happened altogether too frequently in the past, she has thrown a super mega monster screaming tantrum. Once again, I am the primary target, although everyone in her vicinity is catching buckshot. Once again, I am the Beast of the Apocalypse, undermining her authority(?), author of  'fucked-up weirdness' (?) , calling her a bitch all the time (?  not that she doesn't rate it at the moment) and a whole random-as-fuck stack of other things that bear very little relationship to rational thinking. 

Once again.

Coming as this does during a time when I am mourning the second loss of my son, the near-loss of my husband, and a diagnosis of adult ADHD, I am somewhat less than willing to give this bullshit the time and consideration she seems to think it deserves.  I have received the usual long, ranting, email, and I have once again deleted the usual long, ranting email without reading it.  This behavior has played out with dismaying regularity ever since she was about eleven years old, and I've blogged about it elsewhere.  This time is different.  The time has finally come to put more distance between her and I, and to keep it there for good. 

Lest you think that everything in my life sucks, be reassured.  The Biker and I are solid.  We are GOOD.  He is behind me all the way.  He was there when this all came down, and he too has seen it aaaaaaaall before.   Thank God for him.  

And Thank God for modern medicine too.  I came thisclose to being a widow.  But a ten-minute procedure later and it's like this:  if  we'd known that a couple of stents would make this much damn difference we'd have bought them by the crate and stapled them all over everything like party decorations.  I have to disguise myself as a lawnmower and hide in the shed at night if I want to get any sleep.  This has been a public service announcement from the Department of Too Much Information.

Sunday, April 1, 2012

Let The Games Begin....and they have

The thing you need to keep in mind when dealing with co-dependent people is that their world is the only world, and that world operates on deceit.  Everything you've ever said and will ever say they will assume is a lie, and they wait in dread for the inevitable moment that you do something deliberately cruel and abusive to them.  Everything that happens is interpreted this way.  You have no say whatsoever.  Anything good or fun is just a set-up, every positive emotion is probably faked and always fleeting and pale, and everything disagreeable or unpleasant is an attack.

My relationship with the Arborist didn't stand a chance.  For the past year I've struggled with this knowledge.  I finally told him.

Given the above...?  You can imagine how well that went over.

Two weeks afterward, he shot me an email, a nearly unintelligible, vicious rant having to do with his sister, The Stainless Steel Amazon, and a fight they'd had four years ago...a fight precipitated by the event mentioned in the first post of this blog.  The same one I was assured by him was done and in the past, no hard feelings, shit happens, copious amounts of sunshine blown up my ass, noses brown, eyes right, forward march.

 What that had to do with the present was precisely nothing. It was purely and simply abusive on his part, and ugly, and it was the last straw as far as I'm concerned.  I don't suffer fools, and I don't suffer punks.

But something told me that this wasn't the cherry on top...not yet.  And sure enough.....

Turns out, he's been phoning this same sister and sweet-talking her for the past two weeks ('I guess you know your mom's mad at me...sniff...')  Now she's taken his part and they're both angry with me for being such a mean old irrational bitch.

I've had to put up with two visits from  my daughter since, both visits chock fucking filled with lots of pointed comments and barely disguised impatience.  The message is clear:  This is all my fault.  I should apologize. 

Meanwhile I have that email simmering away in my archives. 

Me, I'm done. I'm in therapy. I'm dealing with the mourning and the other issues this has brought up, and I've disconnected.  I don't see him ever dealing with his shit, and I've made it clear that unless he does this isn't going to happen; so for now, this faltering excuse for a relationship is over for the foreseeable future. 

But what goes for James Bond goes for me:  Never say never. 
Keep watching this space.