I never told my mother that . . .
. . . I stole loose change from her coat(s) when I was seven.
I’m not always OK.
I don’t say lots of stuff because I know she’d rather not be bothered.
Her protestations of feeling no guilt are a dead giveaway.
Relentlessly, she says: “money is evil” and “love is a meaningless word.”
I already know how loudly she screamed when giving birth to me.
I experience her victimhood as my helplessness.
I truly grew to dislike my brother.
Her insistence on his victimhood helped neither him nor me.
She has borderline features and I’d love to explain that to her.
I have great compassion for her even when she belittles psychiatry.
I resent that she never told me she thought I should not marry my husband.
We all know that she has no self-control and will tell anyone anything about everyone.
She taught me to interrupt and I’m still working on that.
I wish she could accept my compliments.
I don’t want the stuff she bought at the latest auction.
Attached to her gifts are strings that vibrate.
I know I can never please her.
I know she is internally lonely.
I can’t make it better though I’d like to.
I used to believe I could.