She Sent a Postcard Again Bowling Fr Soup
I airtight my laptop and asked my waitress, Lila, why she was clearly having a rough day. She started talking to me about her mom.
I nearly dropped my glass of lemonade.
Lila's mom rivals mine and I didn't think that was possible—I mean, anything is possible, just a female parent using a super nice girl as whipping post, toxicant pen recipient, eye-punching material (not to mention literal face-slapping fabric)? For decades?
I idea that was just my mom.
When I was a kid, my female parent ran off with a Greek boy-god 15 years her junior, left us little ones with our alcoholic, depressed, out-of-work dad. She sent postcards detailing her explorations of Greek isles as my dad made our school lunches while sipping his forenoon coffee-with-vodka.
When the Greek boy-god dumped my mother, she reclaimed her kids and added a bad young man to her instant-family unit. I wasn't the only one who objected to him, cue my sisters and extended family members. But after Bad Fellow threw a patio table over on me, about knocking out my front teeth because I told him his bullying was not okay, I was the child at dwelling house wrapping my chamber's doorknob with string tied to a chairback: alarm system, in instance Bad Fellow tried to impale me in the middle of the night.
Information technology was the '70's. I had no idea CPS existed. If I had? I would have bugged them. Repeatedly. I was that kind of precocious, SAVE THE KIDS! kid.
When I fled 'domicile' at 17, my mother never said: I'one thousand sorry I'm assuasive y'all to get off and ally a misogynist 3 times your age.
Or: I'one thousand lamentable my addiction to abuse has caused you to enter an abusive relationship of your own.
Or: I'm deplorable for abandoning you kids for the Greek boy-god.
Or: I'k sorry.
Instead, I got: "Your leaving caused me to have a nervous breakdown and but he (i.e., Bad Boyfriend) helped me through it."
These days? I exercise gratitude: Mr. Wonderful; our amazing son; our home, mini-zoo; our FUN.
It's hard to imagine I was e'er anyone's whipping postal service, much less my own female parent'south. And yet…she continues to repeat the past.
That doesn't hateful she is successful.
I told Lila.
Lila didn't agree, or disagree.
Just confessed she gave her mother the shirt off her back because her mother unleashed the ME-A-Blackness-Pigsty energy and said: I want your shirt. That shirt. Correct there. The one you're wearing.
Lila felt deplorable for her mother, who at that time was recovering from a stroke. So Lila washed the shirt in her female parent'south washing machine. Dried, ironed information technology. Gave it to her mom-along with a bowl of chicken soup. Before long subsequently, Lila was b****-slapped again by: Approximate who.
Lila doesn't await like me at all, but we are sisters.
"I tin can't imagine treating my son the manner my mother treated me," I told Lila, hoping I didn't sound preachy. "Can't imagine treating my 12-17-yr-old self the way my mother treated me," I added. "I recollect nearly that 12-17-yr-one-time girl trying so hard to be an adult without knowing how to be an adult and I tell that girl: I've got your back."
Lila looked doubtful, but nodded.
"I'm making progress, is what I'g saying," I told her.
Lila cried a little as I handed her my therapist's card. She moved to other tables and I cried a little backside my sunglasses equally I packed upwards my laptop and drove to call back my son from his summer camp.
Cue happiness.
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Source: https://pbwrites.wordpress.com/2017/07/12/the-new-now/
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