Living Well is the Best Revenge
A noder wrote a piece and this is an expansion of what I wrote in
the comment box under the piece's title: There are many reasons why we don't
remember childhood things that others can relate very matter-of-factly. My
mother's had Narcissistic Personality Disorder and other mental illnesses all
her life. For this reason, I grew up really fast. I was only eight years old and
was washing dishes (could never get them done "fast enough" nor "just right")
and also vacuuming, dusting, washing clothes and more. All the time mom lay on
the couch; turns out she was depressed. She manufactured "migraines"
to explain her lethargy.
Does this sound like you? Of course the bonfire, reminiscing with friends
never happened. In my case none of my friends were "good enough" and the thought
of me being away for a day (or just a night) scared the shit out of her.
Mind you, it took 15 years of therapy to discover a lot of this stuff. My
brother, sadly, fell into her clutches when he was old enough to do housework
and didn't balk the way I did as I matured; so I was cast aside like so many
soiled rags, but for being assigned some kind of busy work in the messy yard
outside.
It occurred to me you might wanna know where dad was; he quickly realized
that the office job he had would mean he'd have to be home every night, so he
took a job that entailed a lot of traveling. He got to escape during the week.
He repaid my brother and I for leaving us with her by taking us out to places
that on his modest salary he couldn't afford. We'd all have to lie about being
at the Chinese Restaurant or (Heaven forbid!) Coney Island amusements upon
returning home. We all knew there'd be hell to pay for "leaving her alone" for
any amount of time at all.
When my father died two years ago, mom didn't weep. In fact, she shocked the
350 or so funeral-goers with her behavior; that of a Queen receiving guests. She
sat, basking in the attention after the service (there were no calling hours).
It disgusts me (and shocked my therapist) that I moved her to be near me
after his death. It's taken me two years to finally assert myself; she no longer
calls twice daily and wanders into my place of business with a taxi waiting
outside that she didn't have the cash to pay for. (Oh, she's got plenty of cash;
it's just in the bank and she assumes that if she shows there's just a dollar in
her change purse someone will come to her rescue.) Oh, how magnificent it
was to be able to say "mom, get back in the car and have him take you to the
bank so you can get some cash for yourself." (Instead, it turns out, she
borrowed the fare from the receptionist at her Senior Living Center and just
stayed home. I wonder if she ever paid it back.)
I'm no Saint; nope. Mom reminds me of that nearly as often as we talk lately.
But heck, I'm re-living my childhood the way I wanted it to be. I treat myself well. Heck, there's truth in the
words attributed to Grace Kelly, "living well is the best revenge.*" It sure
is. My teddy bear concurs.
*Turns out one George Herbert, a member of the clergy and a poet, first wrote
this, one of my favorite sayings; not Grace Kelly. Herbert lived (well, one
would assume) from 1593-1633. It also turns out that those clever boys in the
rock group R.E.M. wrote a song with that saying as a title.