A Child Called “It”: Slightly Less Scary Version

After I found out about my mother, the reality of it all hit me full-force. The fact that I have a mother like that, one so screwed up that meeting her is a complete impossibility, came down really hard on me. There are other crazy mothers out there; I realize that I am not the only one who has one. It just made me wonder why I couldn’t have a NORMAL crazy mother. Like Endora on Bewitched, Sylvia on The Nanny, Rochelle on Everybody Hates Chris. Why couldn’t I have neurotic instead of flat-out demented?
I’m stil not sure why. For a while, I blamed God. I blamed myself. I blamed the whole world. I blamed her. I let that anger pile and became someone I was not. I became angry and cut-off from the rest of the world. I’d look at a mother-daughter duo and feel like smashing their faces in. ‘Screw them and their happiness,’ I would think to myself.
I remained that way until I realized something: I have nothing to be seething for. Sure, she’s terrible and deserved to live life alone, but if I stay angry and have no outlet for it, I’ll only be hurting myself. Then, I found something to truly be happy for. I got out. I was spared the beatings, the put-downs, the constand smell of alchohol and weed, having to roll my mom on her side so she won’t choke on her own puke. I escaped that.
I read this book once. A Child Called “It”. I didn’t know about my mother at the time, so this story seemed so unrealistic and sad. I told my dad about the mother in the book, and he said “That poor, demented woman….” As I look back on that now, I remember seeing something in his eyes: reminiscence.

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