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Goodbye, Mother.
I can’t take this anymore.
“I’m sorry there has been some confusion; we told your mother this wasn’t cancerous,” the voice sounded far away; tinny, tiny, hollow.
I hung up without needing to hear more. My sister would call in a few minutes, fill me in on the rest.
I felt cold frustration give way to warm anger and then to searing hot rage.
What a joke.
What a mess.
What an idiot I had been for believing even one word of the lies that flow like river water from the mouth of my mother.
Like so many other moments in our relationship, this one has left me with the milk-sour taste of disappointment coating my tongue.
The words I speak are tainted by it, my voice thick with remorse.
The flimsy facade. The failed attempt to weave an elaborate web of lies. In a way, it is sad to see it disintegrate. It’s another marker of how far she’s fallen, how gone she truly is.
My mother, the woman-child who bore me life, is a liar of the worst degree.
With no consideration for the emotional trauma she inflicts, my mother insists on keeping her need for attention at the forefront of her manipulation plan.
