A liberating thought from someone who has escaped the clutches of a dangerous parent
I think my sociopathic mother has convinced herself (and likely others) that I’m dead. Here’s why I think so.
When my father died about five years ago, she threw a monster blow-out of a pity party. She called clergy, friends and neighbors, cousins and uncles. Through them, she begged me to come home where I belong! “She loves her daddy so much!” she likely whined.
Actually, I don’t. My father was an enabling wimp who looked the other way when my mother tortured her child. His child. And he willingly participated in the abuse when she instructed him to. When I began to wonder why the thought of “loving my daddy” frightened and nauseated me, I concluded that he was every bit as dangerous as she was. No, I did not love my father. And I felt no need to honor his death in any way whatsoever.
I didn’t respond to my mother’s heart-rending pleas. I didn’t go to the funeral. I didn’t call, text, or send a sympathy card. What did I do? I went to the store for chips, dip, and soda pop. I celebrated. The day my father died was one the best days of my life.
Then last year, quite by accident, I ran across my brother’s obituary. The only person who tried to contact me was Ex Number Two. He sent clergy to tell me, because he was “concerned, and…
