girlfiend

My cousin called yesterday. He started off by asking about the children, which I knew was complete bullshit, but my in-laws were over and my kids were running around and he barreled right into a discussion about my mother and keeping our small family together and I said I’d call him back. When I called a few hours later I was not in good shape. I’d written down my talking points, but I was so annoyed that he was calling me about letting things go and starting over with my mother that I got completely off topic. I didn’t know what parts of the story he knew and which parts of the story he didn’t. I was flustered. He brought up his sister a few times, my cousin who I once thought didn’t come to family dinners because she was immature. I am tempted to call her, to talk through this, but in the past she has been loyal to my mother, so I probably won’t. I upset when I got off the phone and wrote this email to finish the conversation with him. I don’t think I’ll send it.

It is difficult for me to speak on the phone because my emotions run high and I get off topic. I jump from hurt to hurt and I raise my voice and I realize afterward that I probably sounded like a lunatic. It is not anger. I am not angry with my mother. I take none of this lightly. The decision not to speak to my mother is not a reaction to anything she has done. It is not to punish her or hurt her. I’m staying away to protect myself and my family. She treats me badly. She has treated me badly for years. No matter how low my expectations were she hurt me again and again. For years I tried to keep our relationship in tact because I didn’t want to seem like a grudge holder. I come from a family of excellent grudge holders and that is not what I want to be. But this is not about a grudge. I’m not angry with her. I’m heartbroken.

As for the painting, I need to stress that the money is not an issue for me. I don’t care how much money she got for the painting. I care that she sold it. The painting should have gone to my children, not to me. It shouldn’t have been sold. I don’t care about the money. She didn’t offer it, but if she had I would have refused it. I don’t want any money from her. I want the other sketch, not because of what it’s worth, but because it should eventually go to my children.

I appreciate that you’re not taking sides. But I can’t help but ask, where were you 9 months ago when my baby was born? Where were you in September when your mother turned me away from Rosh Hashanah dinner? Where were you when I was not invited to Thanksgiving? Why is my father, who has been divorced from my mother for more than 15 years invited to your mother’s home when I am not? Why didn’t you respond to my emails?

Again, I apologize if I was rude, flippant, or sarcastic to you. I don’t want to hurt or alienate you. I appreciate that you took the time to call. I hate that our family is estranged. But this family is broken. There was a time when I hoped to keep it together but I can’t keep trying at my own expense and at the expense of my husband and children. I can’t maintain contact with my mother. It is in my own best interest not to.

Remember how just a few days ago I was done with this? I can’t keep this to myself.

Years ago I used to pose for an artist. A talented artist. Looking back, I probably should have received commission, not just an hourly rate, but I was young and didn’t know the difference. The artist gave me a few sketches, one for each of the major paintings I sat for. Because I was close to the family my mother was invited to a friends and family yard sale he had and bought an oil painting of me at a very reasonable rate. I don’t know what she paid for it, but she got a deal. It was a yard sale, not a gallery purchase. She bought a sketch of me at the same time.

A while back, probably even before disaster struck after Miss N’s birth, my mother asked if it was okay for her to give some of his artwork to my aunt. I told her no, do not give away the artwork because my aunt will sell it. She said okay, she wouldn’t.

Yesterday my mother invited us over to celebrate her birthday. Remember, I am not interested in pursuing a relationship with this woman. However, I feel guilty cutting her off. As a goodwill gesture I brought the three kids over. It was the first time I’ve been to her place since she first rented it. I looked around and noted the sketches displayed but not the oil painting. She fed my children cake and gave them crappy gifts. There was an awkward visit with my aunt (the woman who uninvited me to Rosh Hashanah and didn’t even bother to invite me to Thanksgiving. She is a cold, unloving bitch). Then she took us downstairs to see the “consignment boutique” she opened in her building. The boutique is essentially the contents of her shore house, the pieces she didn’t sell. Art, furniture, tchotchkes, and clothes. I looked around. No oil painting. I didn’t want to, but I asked, and yes, she sold it. At auction. Initially I feared she’d just given it to my aunt. But no, she sold the painting through a proper auction house and made a ton of money off of it.

She sold it. She fucking sold it. I asked her why she sold it, reminding her of our previous conversation about giving the artwork to her sister. She said, “I was talking about the sketches.” Well, if I didn’t want her to give away the sketches to her sister, does she really think I’m giving her the green light to sell the oil painting? Further conversation got us to the point where she said, “it was mine to sell.” Of course it was fucking hers to sell, but who the fuck cares? Who does that? What MOTHER sells an oil painting of their child? It was an original piece by a successful artist. Something my children, her grandchildren, might have wanted some day. An heirloom. Something worth keeping in the family. She sold it.

I called my dad to ask for his help in getting my sketches back, the sketches that were clearly given to me, with my name on them. I didn’t want to go over there with the kids and her schedule does not allow me to pick up the sketches when it is convenient for me. I told my father that she SOLD the fucking oil painting and he was as incredulous as my clueless father can be. He told me that he doesn’t understand why she would do such a thing and that I shouldn’t take it personally (!) and that I should just forget about it because thinking about it will just upset me. He makes a valid point, but I think after everything that this is just the big fuck you of a cherry on top of a banana split of bullshit.

(As an aside, my father did not remember any of this conversation later. It’s like it didn’t happen. He has no recollection. None. WTF? Denial or senility?)

She is not good for me. She hurts me. She makes me angry and upset. She doesn’t care about my children, other than the Fiendling and she only likes him because he is amused by her which won’t last forever. She is a narcissist and I think she actually hates me. Why else would she sell the painting? She hates me. And I hate her too. She has been a shitty mother who has lied and cheated and manipulated and twisted and made me feel like I’m the one who has done something wrong. She has fucked me over again and again and again. B, who has always been the one to insist I maintain relationships with my fucked up family, has been done with her since May and I keep getting sucked back into it. I want to be done, I should be done. I should just cut her off. It’s over, right?

I picked up the sketches today. She wasn’t where she said she would be. I called to find out where she was and told her I wanted the third sketch. She said no, she paid for it, it was hers. I offered to buy it from her. She said no, it’s hers and she’s not selling it to me. Then she had the nerve to ask if I still wanted the other two sketches. I snapped, “Of course I want the fucking sketches,” and she brought them down and put them in my car without a word.

I hate her. I do. I hate what she does to me, I hate the way she makes me feel, I hate the way I act when I am near her. She is not good for me. She is not good for my family. I am done. I won’t do this anymore. She can’t be a part of my family any more. This is beyond me feeling guilty about being a grudge holder like them. This is about my health and my sanity. I am heartbroken right now. I need to heal and I can’t have her near us.

I spent so much time writing about F as a baby that I feel guilty about not writing about T and Miss N. But I don’t want to be a mommy blogger. I fucking hate mommy bloggers and their stupid marketing and google ads and blogher ads and bullshit posts soliciting comments. That loser mommy blogger I wrote about a while back actually tells people on facebook to copy and paste their comments on her blog. I hate her even more for that. And to all of those people with public blogs about their kids who say it’s just a record: I call bullshit. You started the blog because you want people to read what you write. If it’s for family and friends it would be password protected for family friends because there are a lot of freaks out there. I used to write a blog because I like writing and I liked the community of online journalers. But online journals became blogs and it now everyone and their grandmother blogs and you can’t be a part of the community unless you’re tweeting what you ate for breakfast and retweeting everything you and the 1789 people you follow write and I think twitter sucks. I was a blogger before I was a mother and now I’ve got nothing to say in this space that doesn’t feel forced or disjointed.

I think I’m done with this for now. Until I have more stories that are mine, not my kids’, I’m going to stop updating the site. I don’t have an angle, i don’t have a theme. I don’t want to post pretty pictures of my kids climbing trees for strangers to admire- that’s what facebook is for. I am not a mommy blogger or a food blogger or a breastfeeding blogger or a design blogger or an advice blogger and I don’t want to be any of those things. I don’t want to be just another fill in the blank blogger. I’ve got this public space and I don’t know how to fill it in a way that feels real. Maybe I’ll write lists. Maybe I’ll write letters or rants. Maybe I’ll write nothing.