Two years…

Well, it’s been two years or so since I started writing my thoughts online. (It’s only been archived since January 2003)

I initially started the journal to let the world in on how I was dealing with my Mother being ill, and to help explain to everyone just what was (and still is) wrong with her.

Well, she’s made some progress, and she’s also not. She’s moved on and she’s not. Mom’s illness, like so many things in her life is complicated beyond belief. Some days she’s highly optimistic, other days she acts as though she’d prefer it to all end.

It’s a very difficult rollercoaster of emotions and psychological turmoil that I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

Of late, I have to admit I’ve started feeling burdened by it all. Now I know that’s a kind of selfish indulgence I’m allowing myself to feel, but I have to allow myself to feel it. To admit to it. Mom lives with me. She has primarily lived with me now for nearly two years. God bless Steve, my roommate, for allowing this to happen and not making a big deal of it. His understanding and care for my Mother has been a real blessing.

But I can’t help but feel that Mom’s presence is a real added burden to an already small apartment living situation. On top of the fact that she is living there, she has also not assisted in the rent and has only occasionally stepped up and paid any of our bills. Not that I am wanting her to pay for anything in its entirety, but some assistance on a regular basis would be both helpful and appreciated.

I’ve also felt that through a big portion of her time with me she has really taken what I’ve offered for her and tried to give to her for granted. I don’t feel like she really appreciates what I do for her. And she very often says things to me that are hurtful and mean.

Granted, she has become better at recognizing when she’s hurt me, and she has started apologizing on occasion. But the fact that she would allow herself to hurt me to begin with has me wondering just how much effort I really should be devoting to trying to help her out.

It’s exhausting, it’s often annoying and I am always terrified of her next outburst. So I often find myself depressed and trying to just exist in my own house in a manner that won’t get me on her bad side. As though I am living with my Mom rather than her living with me. Does that make sense? It’s a subtle distinction but a very important one I think.

I don’t know… I feel like I’m rambling. And maybe I am. Here it is, Sunday, and I am “hanging out” in Lancaster. LANCASTER! It’s hotter than hell up here and there is nowhere to go and nothing to do except sit in the sun and watch soccer games being played by kids I don’t even know. But I had to GET OUT OF THE HOUSE. I couldn’t stand to be at MY house for the weekend. I couldn’t spend another minute there.

And so here I sit. Wondering what I can do to fix the situation I’m in while I cook in the High Desert Sun.




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