Mommy Dearest

My mother was mad at me yesterday. Mad probably isn't the correct word. Furious. All over something she herself called petty. When it comes down to it, it doesn't matter why she was mad, just how she was mad.

She was downstairs in the basement and came storming up to yell at me. I'm upstairs in my room, so she stood at the bottom of the steps yelling random comments my direction. She's never asking me a favor again, I shouldn't expect anything from her, she's taking back all the things she bought me for the apartment. She'll never buy me gas again, (which she did only twice this summer,) never take me shopping again, I should leave the house and never come back.

After she finished and went downstairs again, (possibly because I told her to stop it and refused to argue back,) I rushed downstairs to pack up the car and eat before I left for Kris' party. I'm downstairs microwaving some leftovers and Mom must have heard the timer go off, because she comes back up to continue her ranting.

She repeated what she already said, then goes on to tell me that she shouldn't even let me go tonight, (to my best friend's 21st birthday party.) I become more annoyed than I already am, and tell her that if she doesn't stop this screaming I'm going to leave and just order pizza from Kristin's.

That was a mistake. She starts yelling about how I don't have any money to blow, and tells me that I shouldn't spend any money because she's now going to make me pay my whole car bill from when they took my car to get it fixed. (Without my permission mind you, I didn't care if it made funny noises.) So the three hundred dollars my father told me he'd help me pay for (three hundred dollars which is 3/4ths of a paycheck,) is now mine to pay in full.

So by now I'm running out the door. Stumbling because I'm trying to carry everything in one load and have to many things to shoulder, but trying to move as fast as possible to get away from her craziness. I'm seriously opening the door when she puts in one more jab. I have to pick up my sister from work at two the next day. This is the first time, the first time she's mentioned it. Never asked me either, it was a command. An, "or else." I turn around, half falling over and tell her no. I have a hair appointment at noon, and don't expect to be finished in time to make it to the mall by two. I'm probably going to be hung over besides, and don't see why I would do anything for her when she's been irrationally screaming at me for half an hour.

I walk out the door and shut it behind me. Mom opens it and starts yelling again, threatening to make me stay home, (she would have had to tackle me and tie me up,) telling me again to leave and never come back. (Contradicting herself.) My sister said after I left she ran up to her room and slammed the door like we used to do when we were kids.

I'm bawling by the time I get to Kris' house. Mrs. L stood and held me while I cried for a good five minutes, rubbing my back and telling me that even the best mom's can be bitches, and that she herself is Queen Bitch. They feed me leftovers from Bucca's, give me a jello shot and some cake and ice cream, and adore my powerpoint slide show.

Later that night, many drinks later that night, I'm helping Kris clean up the kitchen and I'm thinking again about my mother. How often when I was younger I would scream and shout irrationally at my parents, telling them I hated them, threatening to run away, saying I'll never do any chore for them again. How similar my mother's behavior was to my own years prior. How similar my own children one day will act. It's almost inevitable, at one time or another your children, (or your parents in this case,) will think they hate you. They will scream at you and shout, and bang many doors. If you're brave, you'll stand there silently and let them release their frustrations. Perhaps one day you will be frustrated and shout back. And even though you know, in your heart, that they don't mean anything they are saying, and that they will regret their spiteful words the next morning, it still hurts. It causes pain that once they turn their backs makes the tears fall from your eyes.

Now that I'm older, and I know what it feels like to be the receiver of all that wrath, I regret again all the times I shouted similar sayings at my parents. My parents know that I love them, and that's what helps you be brave in such an attack. I know my mother loves me, that's the only way I could have stood strong yesterday. I hope my children one day know that I love them, and no matter how much they shout about how they hate me, or (God forbid,) if I ever shout at them how much I hate them, I pray that they know it's not true, and that I will always love them, whatever they do.