Lump of Confusion

Slightly modified from the original post…to keep the thumping hordes from sending hate mail. Again.

Ok, well yeah. I’m having one of those really weird weeks and I swear it started with having goose for thanksgiving instead of turkey. No one can snag that, by the way – I have something cooking on the burner with that..LOL I do have some good news, but I’m wondering if I should wait until it’s officially announced to post it. But Michele knows…ARGH. Well, I’ll do this and then wait for the ok to post the other. ;)

We’re all at my mother’s Sunday. I stupidly ask why 10 chairs instead of just 8. Turns out my aunt and uncle (my father’s sister and brother) were in town because the care home called them in to sit and wait on my grandmother’s last moments. Now, here’s the thing. I hesitate to call her that, even if that’s what she is. I don’t know the woman. I’ve spoken to her, politely, only twice in my life. Once when I was visiting her neighbor, and the second time when my oldest was finally out of the hospital (she was premie) and I ran into her at the store.

I’ve lived my entire life in the same town/area as the woman, and those are the only two times I’ve spoken to her; the only two times she’s been civil to me. My father was her favorite…and I’m the result of his affair with my mother. Never mind he had divorced his wife, or that he and my mother were together for a total of four years. I am just NOT his child. Not to mention – I look a lot like his side of the family…particularly the weird green/yellow eyes.

Ok, I’m rambling. I am trying to get to the point here. So, I’ve always been close to my aunt and her kids. My uncle lives in Alberta, so I only see him once or twice every few years. There are a couple of other aunts I’ve spoken to, but I wouldn’t know again if they approached me. I have met one of my paternal siblings. I’m not part of that family, not really. Just my aunt, my uncle and four cousins and their kids.

So the old gal died Monday evening. I’m not entirely sure how I’m supposed to feel.

I feel bad for my aunt, uncle and cousins. They’ve asked that I attend the service but I didn’t know her. I don’t know any of the rest of the family. And the father will be there, no doubt, to see what crumbs he may have missed in ’97 when they had to have her committed. I haven’t seen him, to my knowledge, since I was 4. Apparently. I think I might remember him from then, but it could be that I’ve only created the memory to go with what I’ve heard.

I feel like I should be sad. I know it’s made me think of my gran and gramps a lot more, today. The difference between my maternal gran and this other one was like night and day. Is that coloring my thinking now?

Is it sad or just bad, that I feel bad for not feeling sad? ::)

Norman Bates I’m not…yet…

What happened to the good old days when parents let their children grow up, grow out and get out? AWAY, I mean.

I’m tired of being put in the middle of my mother’s supposed financial difficulties. After the behaviour I saw this past summer, I just couldn’t give a shit anymore. Why did she need to borrow money from my brother to go to various baseball functions, when I was paying for them? Why did I need to be made to feel guilty for not being a better “baseball mom”?

Why can’t she just start taking responsibility for her own behaviour and the symptons of her condition, and start taking control? I swear, if it gets any worse, I’ll apply to have her panelled for a nursing home. I’m done feeling guilty for being born, and I’m done being her whining board. Perhaps if she’d start paying her bills instead of trips to the States and shopping and my gods people, smoking as much as she does…she could pay things off instead of blaming us. After all, I’m 34 and have lived on my own, or pretty much on my own for 17 years. If I can learn how to pay bills first, and play later, why the hell can’t she? And don’t tell me old dogs new tricks either.

Am I being too harsh on her? I don’t think so. People that really know her, and see through her martyr bullshit know I’m not. What I am, is done.