My mother is (was? i am not sure, I haven’t spoken to her for more than 15 years) a pathelogical liar. This is a condition that I became aware of rather early. When my father would come home and she would make up stories about how my brothers and I had misbehaved to explain the bruises on our faces and bodies.
She was/is a kleptomaniac, a bully, a manipulator, a cheater, and not a very good mother. What she lacked in patience and understanding, she made up in violence and intolerance. She once beat me with heavy work boot because I forgot to pick up my younger brother’s legos and she stepped on one with bare feet. She beat me also when my brother rode his bike into the street, when I wouldn’t share my candy with him, when I got good grades (apparently I was showing off), when i got bad grades, when I got into fights, when I didn’t answer her quickly enough or when she was feeling down and needed a pick me up.
She once cut off all my hair because I complained that the hair cut she had just given me was too short. Once, when her brother got drunk on my father’s beer, my mother beat me because I didn’t keep him entertained so he wouldn’t have to resort to drinking.
When I was thirteen, I told my mother, after she hit me yet again for a perceived slight, I warned her that I wouldn’t let her hit me again… and if she did, I would kill her while she slept. She must have believed me because she never hit me again. She left for good not too long after that. I never missed her. I still don’t.
I don’t hate her, but I have no reason or compulsion to connect with her. Some people may think their mothers treat them poorly, some of those people may be right… but I seriously doubt their mothers can compare to mine.
Happy Mother’s Day for what it is worth.