You may have to fight a battle more than once to win it. — Margaret Thatcher
Fighting this battle is one I hate.
It’s the toughest job I’ve ever had because of its emotional connection and emotional drain.
Most days I have to put on my game face and war paint to continue showing up. There is no winner and done means my mom will have died.
Parents are supposed to raise children, not the other way around.
As one ages, the body and mind begin to shut down and stop performing at the highest levels. But what are we to do when declining health is due to one’s own making?
I am conflicted because she has done this to herself.
She imprisons her body to have needs and creates unnecessary ways for others to serve. Years of abusing her body have led her to this physical place.
How do you keep showing up when a person is unnecessarily difficult, keeps changing the rules, and is a master manipulator on her best days?
She’s much too young to feel this damn old — thank you, Garth Brooks.
Perfect that Garth sings the song here on Hee Haw, because her life is a circus. She lives in a state of craziness and want as she pushes that craziness upon others:
I hate having to show up.
When in polite conversation, the popular suggestion is to leave religion and politics off the table.
Both religion and politics (i.e. three separate pastors over 15 years and the attorney in charge of overseeing her affairs) have told me to ignore her all manipulations that do not fall within boundaries. Notice the words they chose — manipulation and abuse — their words, not mine.
Most of my life she has been a mom monster. She cares about no one other than herself and will leave all in her wake who stand in the way of her getting what she wants. In the moment, she will be so short-sighted and cut off her nose to spite her face to get attention.
I’ve learned to keep her at a healthy distance so her poison doesn’t affect my relationships with my daughters and to protect my marriage.
She is an abuser and nothing about her is polite, except when positioning herself for her next attack.
It’s not a new development, but because of the way she has lived, attacked, and abused those who she supposedly loves they have all turned their back on her. Her other children and most of her brothers and sisters have been so used and abused they have stopped showing up or answering her calls.
We all knew she was crazy because no sane person would act as she does.
I was credited to take charge of her health and finances because no one else wanted the responsibility.
The phone call came when she was in a rehabilitation facility after another medical procedure and her electricity had been shut off. My husband and I covered her electricity deficit and immediate restoration of power out of our own pockets because it was in the middle of an Indiana winter and her returning to a home with frozen pipes would present a different set of problems.
Her brothers and sisters were alarmed that the electric company could shut off power because it is a necessity. What they didn’t know was what I quickly uncovered as I dipped into my own pocket to cover fees, deficits, and emergency fees two weeks before Christmas. She was more than three months behind on this bill alone. And, the electric company had full authority to disconnect the power to her house.
When I looked into her other bills I uncovered that every utility was behind. It took me four months of dedication to get all her utilities current. I was given Power of Attorney to manage all her affairs. It’s the toughest job I hate. Managing the affairs of an abuser from another state, and only hearing from her brother when he wants to assert his belief on how to handle her affairs when he disagrees with my decisions.
She has to be mad. No sane person would operate as a puppeteer in the way she lives life.
Me. Me. ME. No one matters, but me.
She has always lived life as the Mine-o-saur, never learning to think about others or sharing.
She lives life as a child in a adult body and has no concern for anyone else.
The diagnosis is at hand. All her scheming didn’t stop the psychologist from spending time with her to make a neuro-psych evaluation when she nearly died last week.
In the midst of being transferred from assisted care to the intensive care unit, she named another person to be notified of her health needs. She mentioned her brother and the facility followed the whispered word of a crazy woman, not of sound mind or body, instead of following the legal written plan.
I was not notified of any events until she had been in the hospital for a full week, was hallucinating, and they didn’t know if my mother would live through the night.
I directly asked my Uncle for information regarding about her physical state and he said, “I have no information to give you. Call the hospital yourself and do your job.” Then he hung up on me and took actions to stop her active do not resuscitate (DNR) order from going into place.
The diagnosis is at hand, and everyone expects to finally have a best-case scenario word for her current state of mind. Dementia is the best word we hope to hear, other health care professional forecast the beginning of Alzheimer’s.
In a few days we’ll know more, but how are we to separate a lifetime of abuse from a Mine-o-saur life of abuse from the current state of being?
When a person creates a prison and has climbed inside it, putting up barriers, barred windows and doors, and swallowed the very key that could free her, how do we keep showing up?
There is no win, no lose, only done.
How am I supposed to keep showing up to fight this battle?
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