The Source of My Anxiety a.k.a. I Love You Mom

I haven’t spoken to my mom in months because she’s overwhelming. Abusive. Intrusive. And I can’t stand the sound of her obnoxious voice. Up until the time I cut her off, an “ordinary”—if it could be called that—conversation with her would leave me crying for hours because I wasn’t a good sister, or daughter, or person, or student, or girlfriend. Because I didn’t make enough money, or live in the right town, or have big enough breasts, or take enough classes.

And, sure, I know she means well, (in a sick, twisted kind of way). I suppose she thinks she’s motivating me to pursue greatness. But she’s not! She’s a walking talking insult, (hence, her nickname, The Beast). Her mouth spews shit on everything within a fifty mile radius. And that’s exactly what I told her when she called on Friday.

Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have picked up the phone. I would’ve left her on the answering machine to leave her bitchy, customary five minute message about what I need to do and when I need to do it, but I’d been drinking heavily, (and I can’t pass up a good confrontation after a good beer buzz).

So, I picked up the phone with a sarcastic exclamation of how happy I was to hear from her. Then came the first blow. She was beside herself that I didn’t call her on Mother’s Day, or send her a gift. She was positive that Rey had at least called his mom, and what kind of daughter was I! If her mother, my grandmother, was still alive, she would be ashamed! And what kind of example was I setting for my brother! You know he does have cancer!

Then, I gave her a left hook to the body. You’re not gonna pull the “my son has cancer,” “my mom is dead” cards on me, lady! There’s a good reason I didn’t call you on Mother’s Day and it’s the same reason why I’m not gonna talk to you tonight.

I went on to explain that nothing is ever good enough for her. That I didn’t call her on Mother’s Day because it wouldn’t have been good enough, she’d have wanted to know why I didn’t send a card. I didn’t send a card because that wouldn’t have been good enough, she’d have wanted to know why I didn’t send a gift. And I didn’t send a gift because it wouldn’t have been enough, how dare I send such a such a trivial present.

I proceeded to tell her that I don’t need her guilt, or her insults, or her nasty messages. Bottom line is, I basically Cesar Milan-ed her ass. And I felt good after I did it. There was no crying after the conversation was over. No guilt. No hours of cleaning to make myself feel better. Just the pure, sweet scent of accomplishment.

But, then Saturday hit, and I woke up with neck pain, which turned into muscle dystrophy/spinal tumor/loss of bowel of control, which carried me into Tuesday. And today brought me a “rotten tooth.” It actually rotted overnight and is causing me such intense pain that I can only chew on one side of my mouth. I’m certain the “rot” is on the verge of invading my brain.

But, the only rot plaguing my brain is The Beast and her insults.

When I talk to her, my fear of rejection and need for approval is brought to the surface. Then, stomped on. I want approval. I need it. Especially from her. Especially, when the rejection from my absent father is always lurking. I shouldn’t be so weak-minded. I should know my worth. But, I don’t. I need approval and praise from my parent, her, The Beast.

Ironically, she’s shallow, and values possessions and appearances above all else. She encourages drugs as an avenue to loose weight; sleeping with men for their money; and selecting friends based on the cars they drive. In order to gain her approval I’d have to do everything I stand against. But even knowing that, doesn’t lessen the pain, or the desire for her approval.

So, I subconsciously use sickness as an escape.