
“She’s not what you want her to be”
-This morning, my boyfriend.
No one has ever put it to me that plainly. This morning I was already dreading seeing my mom today and had previously mentioned some of the things she’d done literally the day prior. Things like asking if my chronic illness being flared up by stress that I’ve had hardly a break from is because I’ve been “doing something weird” with my boyfriend (by this she means some kind of weird sex, I know this because she asked me the same thing on my literal death bed).
But his frankness was in response to me realizing my mom wasn’t going to be able to see the show I curated (my first name on the wall, institutional show, this is not yet a regular occurrence) for at least another week because she had a procedure this morning and thus is on bedrest. The show I put together while hobbling around with a boot on my foot because of a truly horrific sprain. It is the first time ever I’ve been proud of myself career wise. Everyone came to the opening. Except for her and my two grandmothers with Alzheimer’s in nursing homes.
I almost cried when I didn’t see her come in behind my dad. And to be VERY honest the only reason I didn’t leave the whole affair is because I was on the clock. I’ve cried almost every day since. She didn’t come because “she wasn’t feeling well”. But more than likely it’s because she’s felt abandoned. Because I haven’t been home. But the truth is, my boyfriend (and I now since I’ve secretly moved in) lives closer to my job, and I’m dead tired at the end of the day and on the weekends absolutely nothing sounds less appealing than essentially sitting shiva for the world or whatever is happening for her by sitting in a dark bedroom with her watching TV. I would in fact, yes rather go to my friends shows and go to the park and get coffee and go to every used bookstore in a 10 mile radius.
So much could be said about that topic, but I digress. My boyfriend is unfortunately, right. And nothing is more horrible than that.