Bitter Harvest

Two days ago I mailed a money order to my mother. The plain white paper that I wrapped it in bore no greeting. although I believe the message was clear. Given the circumstances of our past, you may wonder why once again, ( after swearing that I wouldn't) dug deep in my pocket and rushed to her aid. Christmas is upon us, and my only real concern is to procure the awe-inspiring gift for my daughter, and have it safely nestled under the tree on Christmas Eve.

The truth of the matter is that although she is still as demented and destructive as she was fifty years ago, I have no choice but to feel sympathy for this aged, pathetic woman. Don't get me wrong, my extreme abhorrence of her is great, particularly when she calls me feigning concern for my family. I know it is only a prelude to the inevitable question. Could I possibly..... and always the promise of prompt repayment. That has never happened, as I know it won't. It's not even the point.

The point is that out of six children, the one she took delight in abusing, is the one who comes to her aid in times of need. You may think that this is an attempt on my part to gain her love and favor. I do not need, want or desire it. She is incapable of those emotions anyway. I only want to have a clear conscience. We are supposed to feed the hungry and tend the sick, even if they are severely mentally ill, as I believe she is and always was. It does not in any way excuse her behavior. Even though I was stripped of my sense of self, and joy of youth, I still have warm blood running through my veins. I have tried to do right by her even though she did not by me.

There will come a day when we will be faced with the reality of what to do with her. A lonely and bitter senior, who squandered her prime years chasing unrealistic dreams, blaming others for her dismal failures, and crushing the light of her only daughter. It is sad in so many ways.

My husband tells me always to be the bigger person. He says you have to fight evil with good. He is a wise man, and he tells me these things to help me cope. Sometimes my anger is so great, it actually makes me violently ill. I have recovered somewhat over these past few days. I must learn to hold on. There is still much to do. I have not yet found that perfect gift.

Still.

Here.

Andi