My Mother Can't Feed The Cats
She's too busy ruining her life and our relationship.
I don’t know if the HOA
allows me to be smoking
on the balcony of my mother’s house.
But I don’t care.
Nor does it matter.
Because despite everyone
she has left in her life,
doing everything they can,
her house is going to go
into foreclosure.
Again.
I was gone for two weeks.
The first week she told me not to come to the house. She had gone on a bender and was ashamed, although she didn’t tell me that. She didn’t have to. I knew. It was the week of her birthday and I had planned for us to go to The Huntington Library & Gardens— one of my favorite places, and a place she’s never been, despite asking for some of her ashes to be spread in their rose garden.
That whole thing is odd to me. One, because why would you want your ashes spread somewhere you’ve never even been? And two, because one of the reasons I love The Huntington Gardens so much is because of my mother’s own rose garden growing up.
She had dozens upon dozens of different hybrid tea roses she would individually pick out from a grower. I would go with her and browse through the Hello Dollys, Double Delights and Mister Lincolns. If I had to choose one fond memory of my mother and myself, it would be us clipping roses and constructing bouquets in the kitchen.
But no.
She told me to cancel.
The second week was the first week at my new job. Which she was very excited for me for mayyybe 24 hours; until she decided to go on another bender and send me incoherent texts at 4AM threatening to get an attorney if I didn’t bring the car back— a car she cannot legally drive, while still refusing to provide me with any evidence that her “personal driver,” “Ruth,” even exists.
We had a long call Thursday… Friday… Saturday. We planned the coming week together between her trying to cry about what a horrible mother she was, promising not to take her sleeping pills during the day, swearing she’d stop drinking, telling me to ignore her mean messages, and pretending not to be upset that they no longer hurt me.
I could only endlessly repeat: “Please eat, drink water, and sleep. Please sober up. I can’t help you when you’re like this. I can’t help you when you won’t help yourself.”
I drove out Sunday as planned, despite her not answering my calls. I didn’t want to because I knew it wasn’t going to be good. My sister was on the phone with me, saying exactly what I used to, and would still, say to her: Turn around. Do not do this to yourself.
But I had to.
I had to because half my shit is here, because I’ve spent almost all my money trying to save her & this house my beloved grandparents got for her, because for some reason— even though she’s given me every reason to know all this shit my whole life— somewhere inside me, I needed to know she was still a liar. An alcoholic. A perpetual victim. A self-appointed martyr for nothing but self-loathing. A lost cause.
I needed to know that there was a reason I was estranged from her for nearly ten years. That there was nothing I could do then, and nothing I could do now.
I walked in and she was passed out, mostly naked, on the couch. The coffee table was covered in bottles, melted ice cream, and dozens of random pills. The floor she made me scrub and condemned as “not clean enough” two weeks ago was now a sprawling Rorschach of cheap red wine centered around a shattered 1.5 liter bottle and its sparkling glass splinters.
The phone she wouldn’t answer
the nine times I called
she picked up immediately
for a man she has been dating.
I made her hang up as she tried to slur through small talk, throwing a pair of pants at her to put on. She brought them to her face and smelled them before gleefully saying, “Oh, I didn’t pee in these!” (she did) while I once again attempted to clean her floor.
She started deliriously rambling about how she didn’t understand why I was here and her phone being hacked by someone named Charlie.
“[Full government name].
I’m not talking to you.
You lied to me.
You don’t respect your home,
you don’t respect yourself,
and you don’t respect me.”
“I did lie to you!” she laughed.
”You’re just so easy to lie to!”
At least she’s honest about it now.
I should have turned around
when I had the chance,
and never reentered
this woman’s life.
But I’m glad I went.
I’m glad I know
that there’s really only
ever been one choice:
to take care of her
or to take care of myself.
And once again,
I’m going to choose myself.
I’m going to have to be here for a certain amount of time because of my finances, but that is still choosing myself; choosing to accept the choices I fool-heartedly made believing she was somehow not full of bullshit, that somehow I could make things better— not just for her, or me, but for our family— even when deep down, I knew the truth.
From the balcony, I watch the stray cats my mother calls her own circle the house. She’s obviously been ignoring them for days as they stare at her— passed out on the couch, in a pool of wine and pills— from outside the sliding glass door a mere ten feet away.
Their food
is right next to the door.
But she can’t be bothered
to feed them
when she is so busy
starving herself.
All collages © Marissa A. Ross. Do not reproduce without permission.
At the risk of sounding woo-woo...On wanting her ashes spread somewhere she's never been...it seems roses at some point were good memories/times between you and her, and it's one of your favorite places...maybe somewhere deep down it's her wanting to be/stay with you in a way that is not connected with the negativity and trauma that she chose in this life?
I am so sorry you are in this situation. It sounds exactly like my drunken mother who I stayed around and took care of for years. Until I couldn’t anymore. I have not seen or talked to her in almost seven years, and the peace that came with that is priceless. I hope you are able to get through this period and can find that peace.