One of the downsides of being a terminal social leper is the rare times when I really feel the need to vent off emotion; inanimate objects and small animals don’t really provide a satisfying sounding board. My ability to successfully understand and communicate with people is practically nonexistent, and always has been. Whatever psychic antennae other people use to interpret the actions and intentions of their fellows, I either never had, or else lost at an early age.
I’ve seen others post about all sorts of emotionally charged events, full of tragedy and anger and personal revelation, all for an audience of internet strangers to witness. I never could fathom why anyone would want to do such a thing. Now I find myself with absolutely no other outlet, so I’m going to stand here in the town square to whine and scream for a while. I figure the worst I can do is poison the well irrevocably and I’ll be out a subscription fee.
Any hoo. Ten years ago, my mom got remarried. She had been living by herself for a few years, and got involved with a fellow named Jimmy, a security guard at her apartment complex. Mom was lonely, he was always at the front gate with a smile, etc. From the start I admit I wasn’t keen on the guy, but on the other hand I didn’t want to stand in the way of Mom’s happiness either. So I bit my tongue and tried to act supportive.
So they got married. However, this meant that Mom had to move out of her newly purchased apartment, because the complex frowned on resident/staff relationships and Jimmy was afraid he’d lose his job. So she sold the place at a loss and took out a mortgage on a new house. Then she purchased him a brand new SUV as a wedding present, because she knew how embarrassed he was by his crappy used car.
It transpired that Jimmy was a drunk. Mom knew this beforehand, but thought that she could change him after marriage. Another thing she knew beforehand and neglected to share with me was that Jimmy’s previous marriage broke up amid domestic battery issues. She sensed that this information might upset me.
So. For some years, she and the drunk have maintained a generally stable co-existence (the term “marriage” hasn’t really applied in spirit for a while; Mom revealed to me after one of their arguments that they haven’t actually been physically intimate since the first year of marriage, when he infected her with herpes). He hasn’t been overtly abusive, you see; like any good freeloader, he knows which side his bread is buttered on, because she owns the house.
So he has limited himself to relatively minor displays of disrespect, such as the huge collection of pinup girls he has plastered the garage walls with, and his insistence on driving her car to work so that his precious SUV won’t get rained on (!!), and his habit of throwing out her stuff without asking, and the fact that he killed her hearing-ear service dog through overfeeding even though she repeatedly begged him not to.
Throughout all of this, I have been too dense to understand how to address the matter effectively. My concern was for her happiness, and discussing the subject made her unhappy; she didn’t want to hear it, please change the subject now. Sometimes, after one of their arguments, she’d talk about telling him to take a walk, and I admit I took those opportunities to try and encourage her along that line of thought.
But it’s never happened, obviously. At this point, she seems more upset at the thought of being alone. Somewhere along the line she’s become agoraphobic, and on some level she seems to believe that she needs him to run errands and go shopping for her. After my dad died, I was amazed and so proud of how she came out from under his shadow, taking charge of the household, keeping the family going. Now she seems like a borderline invalid, and I don’t even know how much is genuine physical infirmity and how much is just in her mind.
Shortly before Christmas I stopped in for a visit, and they got into an argument over some trivial thing or other. He was drunk, of course, and eventually started shouting at her so loudly that she fled into the garage, crying; he followed, screaming slurred obscenities for the whole neighborhood to hear about how much he did for her.
I was right there when it happened, and I didn’t do a. fucking. thing.
I was genuinely stunned; he’d never, ever allowed himself to go off like that in my presence before. After he staggered back into the house, Mom broke out of her crying jag and begged me not to follow him. She was okay, she was fine, don’t talk about it, change the subject. And I let her. I couldn’t think of any good options. Confront him? What the hell would the point be, when he’s roaring drunk and won’t even remember what he said in ten minutes?
So I visited with mom instead, and he stayed hidden in the back room. What else should I have done? Yelled my head off at the bleary, barely conscious drunk? Definitely; probably; maybe; answer unclear, ask again later. Over and over in my mind, to no purpose, and it won’t stop. I know I fucked up. I know I should have done something.
Mom often calls in the evenings: how was work, what are you up to, etc. A couple of days ago we’re chatting pleasantly, same old conversation, and just apropos of nothing, perfectly normal tone of voice: “You know, I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but Jimmy hit me the other night.”
A couple of nights ago. Really. Why? Oh, we were arguing. About what? His drinking. How hard did he hit you? Oh, hard enough to leave a red mark for about 15 minutes. Did it leave a bruise? No. Did you take a picture? No. What did you do? Hit him back. It’s all over now; things have settled down, he said he was sorry, it’s fine. * Has he hit you again? No. Is he there now? Yes, why? Is he drunk? He’s getting ready for work. * Put him on the phone. Why? Because I want to talk to him. No, I don’t want him to know I told you. Things are fine; don’t get me upset; change the subject; change the subject.
So I got in the car and started driving to St. Pete, intending to catch him at work, the one place he isn’t drunk. He hit my mom. She won’t be there. I’ll just have a talk with him, let him know that I know what he did, that a repeat of this behavior isn’t acceptable. He hit my mom.
I got about twenty miles out before the second-guessing started. First and foremost, the ironclad certainty that I would inevitably fuck things up even worse. * Is this really the right thing to do? I can’t read people. He hit my mom. Can I act reasonably when I’m this mad? I’m going to screw this up, aren’t I? It’s been ten years and this has never happened before; what if he’s as shocked as I am, and resolved to never let it happen again? It’s already been two days; they’ve already made up with each other. If I do this, Mom will never confide in me again.*
I turned around.
As it turned out, the next day I had an appointment with the doctor who prescribes the meds that keep me from putting a hammer through my skull. We chatted for an hour; unfortunately, we spent the first 45 minutes working out whether she would be ethically required to file a report of spouse abuse if I described the problem. Eventually, after third-party arbitration was called in, we determined that such a minor isolated incident wouldn’t fall under those parameters. She advised me to read up on domestic battery and Al-Anon, here’s your renewed prescription, see you in three weeks.
So, my psychiatric counselor doesn’t appear to think it’s a big enough deal to worry about. Fair enough; it’s not her mom, after all. But then, my mom also doesn’t seem to think it’s big enough to worry about.
My birthday’s a couple days from now, and Mom wants us both to go to the “History of Dogs” exhibit at the Florida International Museum. I expect Mom to cry at least once at some reminder of her late service dog, whom she really loved. Perhaps the exhibit will have some literature about the history of overfeeding dogs until they get too fat to urinate and have to be put to sleep.
She called yesterday to make plans. Again, apropos of nothing: “By the way, Jimmy knows you’re upset with him.”
Oh? Really? How would he know that? *Well, I told him that you know about him hitting me. (why did she do this? totally forgot to ask) * He said if you’re angry about it, you should talk to him. Really. If I’m angry about him hitting you, Mom? IF I’m angry? Well. By all means, put him on the phone right now, please. *No; don’t make me upset. *
What does any of that even mean? First she lets slip to me that he hit her; then, after I do nothing at her explicit request, she lets slip to him that I know he hit her. Is this intentional? I’m 36 fucking years old, and I don’t even know how my own Mom thinks.
Obviously I’ll need to confront him, but how far does she want me to take it? Does she need me to force the issue because she can’t bring herself to eject the shitbag?
All I can think of is this other time long ago, shortly after my dad died. My younger brother was going through this angry, abusive phase, and Mom kept dropping all these hints that he was out of control, that she couldn’t discipline him effectively by herself, etc. So one time he was doing something, screaming at her, I don’t even remember what it was, so I smacked him against the wall because I thought that’s what she expected of me. And she instantly went to pieces, shrieking at the top of my lungs for me to stop, for us both to stop fighting. And my brother of course also started in screaming at me, accusing me of trying to take Dad’s place. I am so very sorry for that moment. My brother hated me.
I don’t want to fail her like this. I love her, but I don’t know what I ought to be doing for her. I’ve managed to fuck up everything else in my life already, and have contributed amply to other lives being fucked up and derailed, jsut by existing. I can feel the new fuckup bearing down on me.
The last couple of days have been bad. The birthday thing isn’t helping. I had to leave work early today, because my mind just will not settle down and be quiet. It’s not even a consistently bad mood, there’s weirdly elated intervals too, like a pendulum. I’ve been laughing. I have this sensation that feels like electric waves washing through my brain, a slow fizzing pulse, that is familiar from other times when I’ve been really deeply upset. Even with that feeling, though, things are relatively stable, which I attribute to the medication evening things out somewhat. For the last year I’ve been getting stress migraines, but this isn’t like that, more like a smooth tension or pressure inside my head.
Wow, I’ve typed a lot tonight. Will it make a difference? Who knows. At least now some of this stuff is somewhere outside my head. That’s got to be worth something. Was it a good idea? Let’s find out.