Rebellious Thoughts of a Woman

I lost it this evening. Sometimes all the encouraging words and thoughts and wishes for a better future are not enough to overcome a present that is just painful. Okay, I don’t have a life-threatening illness, and I appreciate that, I really do, but screaming out in pain from something my child says to me is mighty painful.

I was already drained after agreeing to let the rabbi in ex’s family deliver a few words to my daughter at her Bat Mitzvah. Yes, this is the man who I turned to after slime kicked a bag at my head and asked him to please talk to slime, that he is out of control. This is the man who at that time was studying for his doctorate in pastoral counseling who told me that no, he would not talk to him because he “doesn’t want to take sides, he loves us both.” So the very notion that he really will be there is bad enough, but that he will speak churns at me. Sure, I could say no, you don’t deserve any respect at this venue, but I know my daughter would not be happy about that, and that she would remember that he spoke at her sister’s Bat Mitzvah. Perhaps I am still an enabler.

Then there were the hours spent buying food for the big event at three different supermarkets after work. And no, I do not ever expect to get paid by slime, but my parents have stepped up instead of the man who was supposed to be by my side. (I wonder how father’s feel when they discover the man to whom they entrusted their daughters have so debased that trust?)

When I walked in the house, four hours after leaving work, I realized that I forgot to tell my daughter to walk the dog, since I had not been able to walk him the morning since he was in slime’s room. So after getting one daughter’s nastiness about my yelling, I was blindsided by my other daughter.

After telling her that no, she can’t have my car to buy something for her camera so she can take pictures this weekend, and no she can’t have my credit card she turned  so very nasty on me. Her survival instincts are truly horrific.

“You put shit on his car.”

“What?”

“There was shit on dad’s car, obviously you put it there.”

Here’s where all self-control and bladder control is lost. First I asked her, calmly, if she really believes that, then she said yes, there’s no other explanation for it otherwise. That’s when I slammed the utensil that was in my hand on the chopping board, and screamed so loudly or deeply that, I guess, all internal passages opened up and I started peeing. Then I crumpled onto the floor and was just a scene from some movie where “woman loses it.”

Yes she is 17. But that is an excuse for some things, not this, not believing all the things he says to her about me. I am her mother. I have never done anything to hurt her except to be her mother. (And if she finds this when she is older and is embarrassed, good for you. And if she finds this and is embarrassed by her mother, then good for you.)

I am too tired now. Too tired of this ridiculous home situation. Too tired of how trying to get out of a bad marriage has resulted in a far worse divorce.

Please, please let me have a little light in this tunnel.