I don’t hate my mother per se. She buys me clothes, food, and all human necessities. For example, this morning, she bought me sunglasses – and that’s a major necessity. Even though we often have rows, she never stays mad, and she always come through for me. What I hate about her is her narcissism. Well, maybe not utter
narcissism, but strong, solid narcissism. The way she barges into my, Dad’s, my sister’s room at 6 in the morning just to tell us something that most certainly can
wait would drive anyone crazy. I dont know why exactly she does that. The point is, it drives me crazy, it drives Dad crazy, and it drives my sister crazy. But that, of course, isn’t the whole point or story. She calls us on the phone just to call, not even to tell us anything. Ugh! There is really no point in me writing this, yet I am anyway. It’s because I need to get this off my chest, but I simply can’t turn the way she makes me feel in words. Her blasting music on the computer at 6:50 in the morning, her “Starve to death then.” when my sister tells her she doesn’t want to eat what she made, her buying herself a £120 dress despite being in debt, her calling herself physically disabled just because she’s had surgery on her hip. . .actually, I can’t even write about this any more. I simply can’t. I can’t turn this aggravation into words. Maybe if I wrote a 400-page book about her, I could.
I wish to see the man with a few grey strands in his hair again. The one I saw on Friday, I mean.