I will not be wishing her a happy Mother's Day.
Yesterday, my (single) mother looked into my closet, without my permission, and found the psychiatric reports that I had hidden from her. I want her to have no such part in my life. She found them while I was outside.
I returned home to an outburst. You never were here anyway. All that I did had to be met with rejection and disgust; why in the world do you care? You know nothing about my life. I resent that she takes it upon herself to tell me that I am the worst child ever for exercising my choices as an adult. She has still not returned those reports to me. She says that she will go and speak to the psychiatrist herself; she will sue them. (Horrendous. I chuckled a little when she said that.)
It's all a mess. She wants me to speak to her; she wants me to conform to her racist, derogatory, sexist remarks about every single thing when I do. What she believes and says is true irrevocably, unquestionably. If I tell her otherwise, I am so out to get her. I have been raised like a dog; If I am not to repay her for the humble and self-sacrificing way in which she has "raised" me, I am one to be shunned.
As a child, she had visceral reactions to me making choices towards the way I dress, clothe myself, and fashion. The things I read, the music I listened to. She tore up my books and threw them away if she disliked the more “liberal” ideas. She told me every single night that she would have killed herself as a single mother if not for me. That she loves loves loves loves loves me so much that she lives for me. She would die if I were to go away; she would die, then. The idea of me having a girlfriend drove her up the wall, so much that she grounded me as a child for it. Six months.
I have nothing but disgust in me, as of today. My body reacts to it much worse than I do, shaking. She expects me to wish her, still.
I will not. I will not. I will not wish her, not again. Never. I am so tired.