Anyone who knows me knows that I’ve had a rocky relationship with my mother. What with me coming out to her the summer before my senior year of high school, her subsequent threat of committing a murder-suicide if I ever brought it up, her kicking me out of the house for a weekend for getting a haircut she deemed to be too gay. Even when I was a child things were turbulent (to which she chooses to conveniently forget), but I always give her the benefit of the doubt. She’s my mother, she loves me and even if her methods are fucked up, she still loves me deep down.
One would hope with adulthood coming on things would get better. But, no. Because I don’t have a degree and a clearly defined day job, she likes pointing out what a disappointment I am. And, because I’m fat, she loves to talk about that, too. She opened up her yap last night saying that my pudge is sticking out again and told me that she’s going to have me kidnapped and sent to a fat farm.
On my hike today through the Forrestal and Portuguese Bend Reserves, her words just stuck in my mind. And rather than just allowing nature to absorb me, there was this brewing anger seething just underneath the surface.
I realize that as much as I love my mom, she really is a cunt. So when I hear about folks missing their parents, I can’t identify with that. It’s such a foreign concept.
I was talking with my aunt last week, and we were bitching about my mom. I told her that for the last 35 years I’ve been stepping on every crack I see, but still my mom’s back is all right. I’ve stepped on this particular crack each time I’m hiking on this particular crack. It still hasn’t fucking done anything.