Mother Dearest

Just got back from the therapy rendezvous. I asked Ricky how much more of this shit I have to show up for. He finds this all so amusing. But since he didn’t dish out the punishment, he just shrugged. I have to ask Chaz when he’s back from "vacation". Which we all know is Chaz’s excuse to go on a bender of snorting some lines he found at the strip club on the west end of the city.

Whatever. My work is a fucking joke. Some days I wake up and think… I have my Masters. And I work in this shit hole. Higher education, my ass.

Other days, i wake up, light my pipe and feel blessed my work doesn’t piss test.

Anyway, therapy. Round 2 with Dr. Ivonnakillmyself. She asked about my background. I didn’t have much to say, other than it wasn’t "normal".

My dad is Italian. Pure Italian. Born in Naples, grew up in New York. Blah blah. His family is supposedly the stereotypical Italian family. Loud, obnoxious and hardcore Roman Catholic. So what does my dad do? Abandon his Guitto family and never look back. He left New York at 20 to move to Southern California where he could become a pot smoking hippie who makes pottery for a living.

That’s where he met the hot mess I call my mother. I don’t know much about my mother. She’s an admitted compulsive liar. I quit listening to her stories of growing up and I’ve never met my extended family (on either side). The older she gets, the younger she acts. I quit bringing friends around when I was 13 because she’d hit on my male friends. Which was all I was friends with. That same year, she took a handful of pills and gave our 16 year old neighbor a hand job, unofficially landing her the title of Neighborhood Whore. Since she was adamant about naming me Harlow, my new nickname became Harlot. And the loathing for my mother started.

My parents split when I was 14. My dad had the sense to escape. He couldn’t take her bipolar rampages and quest for affection. I left when I was 16. The day I got my Driver’s License. Moved in with my boyfriend Ronnie. My mother didn’t notice for a whole week that I had left till she went in my room to borrow a shirt and saw all my shit gone.

Since then, I get a call every 3 months or so from her. The conversation is the same.

Mother (with a pill-induced slur): Harlow, honey. Is that you?
Me: Jesus Christ, mother. You called me. Who else would it be?
Mother: Oh honey! I miss you so much. The house just isn’t the same without you. I wish you’d come back and visit.
Me: (Uncomfortable silence).
Mother: So….How’s work, honey? You making good money?
Me: Yes, Mother. I’m a responsible, educated adult. 
Mother: You’re so lucky. I’ve fallen on hard times again Lo.
Me: Luck didn’t put me through school, Ma. It’s called making an effort in the real world. Besides, falling on hard times and government money on pain pills are two different things.
Mother: I’m cleaning up, Lo. I swear. I just need some money for…
Me: No.
Mother: Harlow!
Me: I’m not your fucking piggy bank, Mother. You can’t shake me for a dime. Find your drug money elsewhere.
Mother: Fine. Fuck you, you ungrateful twit.
Me: Good hearing from you, Ma. Talk to you in 3 months.
Mother: Fuck y…
click.

That is no exaggeration. The therapist tried to make me feel guilty for being so harsh on my mom.

Fuck you.

My mother is a selfish addict that is never going to change. And she resents that I left her miserable world to become something better. A child shouldn’t hold their parents hand through life. I tried, in the beginning. I’m done trying. She’ll figure it out, or she won’t.

Meeting up with Stu for coffee. I’m out.