The alarm went off.

I groped for it… couldn’t read it… found my glasses and checked again…

Jesus! The display screen had died an untimely death during the night so all I could see were strange electronic ‘firework’ designs…

Argh! You couldn’t wait ’till I was up… could ya’…?

I rolled back into bed and the stress hit me. 

Unemployment… my so called ‘job’… the house and bills… favours for friends… family… stretched so thin it was a wonder I didn’t ‘snap’… and now this shit with my mother… maybe I was better off

This spring, while stressin’ some stuff with my BF, I got to the point of almost ‘giving up’ and wrote a poem for him in a last ditch effort to get him to hear me. Maybe ‘seeing’ would help… you know (?)
Unfortunately, it went over like a lead balloon, and while he said it was ‘good’, it was clear he didn’t like what I had to say.
‘Why can’t you write about how great I am?’ he asked.
So, I set it aside and told myself that, at least, I’d ‘tried’.
Oddly enough, while the poem was forgotten, things changed with us and it wasn’t long before the issues that’d bred it were smaller …or gone… too. So, when I came accross it while puttering on my site one day, I decided to post it as a reminder not to let others make me an option when I should be a priority and because I was proud of my work.
Then, I let it and the stress go and got busy with the good times.
The other day, though, my BF made a comment that he’d seen it… read it… and that since that was my point… I could take it down.
I considered arguing because he’d chosen to read my site and should have realized that he could also choose not to… and because this is my one place to play… think… vent… but then realized that it was the least I could do in light of how happy he’d made me, so I pulled it.
The problem, however, is that I really don’t have any other venue where I can express myself freely and, sinse I can’t talk to anyone when I need a sounding board or to ask questions, I feel as though the ‘gag order’ I’ve been under for the past year or so has been clamped firmly and finally into place.
I know! It sounds ’emo’, but truth is, I can’t talk to anyone.
I mean, my BF loves me and is amazing in so many ways I can’t begin to list them, but the simple fact is that he doesn’t want to hear what he doesn’t like or lacks interest in. My friends, while they’re great, are seldom available and often dislike my opinions, and there’s a lot I can’t share with people that are too close or distant. And, few – if any – would care about most of what I say and do.
In fact, the people around me make a regular habit out of interupting, talking over, ignoring, or dismissing me, and there’s seldom a time I open my mouth that someone’s not saying ‘don’t go there!’ Of course, I understand and try to respect that, but it’s getting so that I can’t talk to anyone and I’m a ‘talker’ by nature so it’s hurting me in very tangable ways, including making me feel isolated and unvalued.
So, I guess I’ll have to think about this and see if there’s another way that I can respect others and still express myself. Sigh.

When I wrote the other day about my mother having called… again… I referred, of course, to the number of phone calls, but I also meant much more.

I was also referring to the fact that this wasn’t the first time that she’d caused me to miss a chance to put a father to rest.

The first such incident occurred when I was around 14. My natural father had been sick about as many years so we’d had plenty of oportunity to speak of his inevitable death and I was well aware of the fact that he wanted to have an ‘Irish wake’, be cremated, and then his ashes scattered over Niagara Falls… or ‘some nice patch of woods somewhere…’

When he died that winter, though, my mother had him waked at a funeral home, embalmed, and stuffed into cold storage until spring when the ground thawed and he was interred.

I only discovered that fact because I overherd a phone call but, by then, it was too late. From that moment to this, I’ve suffered ghoulish nightmares of the walking dead and know that they are likely directly atributable to my mother’s actions. Because she ignored his wishes and robbed me of the chance to see him burried, my young mind was unable to accept that he was truly at peace and gone.

Three months later, my mother met and married Deckle. She spent the next bunch of years spending his money and driving wedges between him and anyone close to him. Then, forced him into retirement, and did nothing but complain about him – ad nauseum – for years. When he got ‘sick’, she did not (to the best of my knowledge) search for therapy, and stuffed him into a home.

Considering the struggle it took me to get a name and address out of her, I wasn’t surprised to hear that my stepbrother went so far as to have a policeman visit her to check on Deckle. I was, however, shocked to learn that she would deny anyone information about his whereabouts when you’d think she’d tell anyone so they could visit him (!)

Now, I understand she’s old, going blind, and has just lost both parents in the last 5 years or so, but she can’t tell me that she was ‘only protecting me’ this time because I was married and had kids when she stuck Deckle into the home and screwed me out of the chance to see him… or… say ‘goodbye’ this time. Also, we only have her ‘word’ on what he wanted and didn’t want, but you’d think she’d have at least made his family aware of his passing so they could visit the grave should they ever want to.

When I got off the phone the other night, I finally let myself touch the surface of the grief and guilt this has caused me and was mortified to realize Deckle probably died alone in the home… with no one but staff and the teddy bear that was his only company for years to witness the event. A lifetime of watching my mother play ‘the raven’ and use impending death to manipulate me has made it difficult enough to want to visit her, but this is gonna’ make it hard to want to talk to her at all!

After talking to my mother the other day, I realized that I still didn’t know anything about my stepfather’s death, so I went online to see what I could find. This was it…

September 17, 1925 – July 22, 2011
GROVE Peacefully at Picton Manor Nursing Home, on Friday, July 22nd, 2011, DERYK WISEMAN GROVE, formerly of Belleville, at the age of 85. Beloved husband of Norma. BY DERYK’S REQUEST, NO VISITATION OR FUNERAL SERVICE. Cremation. If desired, donations to Picton Manor Nursing Home Resident’s Fund would be appreciated by the family and may be left at the funeral home. ARRANGEMENTS ENTRUSTED TO, THE WHATTAM FUNERAL HOME, 33 MAIN STREET, PICTON, ON.    

http://www.whattamfuneralhome.com/notice/1339

Later, bits and peices of memmory and information started coming back to me….

I remembered hearing my mother complaining about my stepfather being ‘senile’ and talking about putting him into a home. When she finaly told me that he’d seen a doctor and that they found he had ‘calcium deposits’ in his brain, I asked about treatment, and she said that there was none. Of course, I tried talking to both of them about diet and such, but it was useless.
I usually talked to both of them each time I called, but there was a period when Deckle never answered the phone or asked to speak to me. When I realized that, I asked specifically about him and was told that he’d been in a home for 3 mos. When I asked my mother ‘where’ he was, it took weeks before she finaly gave me an adress, which I (sadly) lost during a move.
After that, I could seldom get my mother to talk about my stepfather and she only ever complained about him or spoke of how ‘out of it’ he was.
Then, a half doezen months ago or so, my mother started calling and begging me to visit her before she died. So, when I went up north this year in the middle of July, I promised that I would try. I didn’t want to, but thought it might give me a chance to see Deckle.
Rather than ride from Ottawa to Belleville, I went to Picton first, looking for a hotel in case the visit actually went well. I specifically remember thinking that he might be somewhere in the Napanee area and wondering if I could be driving right by him without knowing it. When I got to my mother’s I asked about Deckle, of course, and learned nothing.
Only now am I putting 2 and 2 together and understanding that he was in Picton Mannor…
…That I might have driven right by the home and not even known it.
…That I might have been able to visit Deckle!
…That my mother didn’t even mention the fact that he was so close and that I could have seen him. After all, he didn’t pass on until DAYS after I’d been right there!
And she wonders why I have ‘issues'(?)

Damn it! She’s done it again! 

A while ago, my mother called to tell me my stepfather, ‘Deckle’ (Derek W. Grove), had passed away. Of course, he’d been ‘sick’ and in a home for years, so I was saddened but not ‘surprised’.  ‘I’m so sorry!’ I told her.  ‘Have you talked to his ex or the kids?’ When she said she hadn’t, I tried calling my step-family and, unable to find a number, made do with messaging my stepbrother online. Then, I stuffed my emotion away and dove back into life and my job search.

Last night, while polishing a resume though, I got another call from my mother, this time ranting about my stepbrother threatening her. Worried that message was behind it, I told her what I’d done and asked for details. She rambled a while but eventually admitted my stepbrother hadn’t called sinse his dad’s death. Relieved, I reassured her that while he was a ‘goof”, my stepbrither was far more likely to sick a lawyer on her than cross the country to attack her at that point. ‘Besides,’ I added innocently, ‘he probably talked to the home a while ago and…’

‘Actually…’ she interrupted, and I should have known from her tone that I wouldn’t like what she had to say, ‘I told the home not to talk to them years ago…’

‘You did what?!’ I seethed, and made her repeat herself to be sure I’d herd right. When she confessed she’d ordered staff to refuse Deckle’s family information, I didn’t care what her reasoning was, and only half herd her excuses. To avoid hanging up on her, I tried changing the topic by asking how she’d been coping(?)

Long minutes later, I – too late – realized what she was up to and tried steering the conversation in a different direction but she wasn’t having it. Instead, she insisted on wrapping ‘guilt’ with ‘greed’ and talk of ‘fresh starts’ and ‘inheritances’. She told me, for example, that her parents were hurt that my siblings and I hadn’t visited more, and asked why we’d ‘cut them’ out of their lives. Forty years of practice made it easy to make excuses. ‘You know what my ex was like…’ I said, and ‘… never having a decent car…’ but she badgered me for the ‘truth’ ’till I caved.

‘Maybe…’ I suggested, it’d been connected to their aparent disinterest, to the fact that they’d known we kids were being abused but chose to send Xmas money rather than get involved.  I teetered dangerously to mentioning the time her father had propositioned my teenaged sister but backed off, anxious not to hurt her.

To my surprised, she commiserated with me, talking a while about how difficult her parents had been to deal with. Just when I thought I might be ‘safe’, though, she asked why I’d avoided visiting her. Again, I avoid direct answers. ‘Can’t we just call… make nice-nice once in a while… and let it go at that?’ I asked, but like a terrier mauling a rat, she clung tenaciously to the point until I was so upset that I could hardly speak.

Cornered, I reminded her of all the times I’d tried to tell her about fighting fathers off in cars after babysitting and all the times she’d gotten into ‘moods’ and tossed my sister and I out of the house. I mentioned the day I stumbled into a friend’s suicide attempt, ended up face to face with a loaded shot gun, and showed up blood covered and in shock.

‘And what did you do?’ I asked. ‘You told me not to sit on your new couch… and you wonder why I don’t care to visit!’

Of course, she claimed she didn’t remember any of it, but I barely herd her. ‘Or there was the time you guys caught (my stepbrother) molesting me in my sleep…! I sobbed. ‘You let him stay while I got tossed out of the house!’

‘You know,’ she interrupted, ‘we always wondered about that…’

‘And yet you punished the victim…’ I thought, and remembered my stepfather going behind my her back to bring me food and check on me after that. ‘He was a good man!’ I sobbed. ‘One of the few that never messed with me… I mean, there was the sexual innuendo after the senility started…’

I trailed off, preferring to remember the ‘good stuff’ rather than the bad. Mom wasn’t making it easy though, and still seemed to want to drag me into emotionally charged and pointless conversation, so I simply gave up. Exhausted and barely able to breathe, let alone talk, I gathered my wits enough to tell her I couldn’t take any more and ended the call as politely as I could.

Since then, I’ve been wishing there were some way to reach out to Deckle’s family and let them know just how sorry I am that my mother’s done these things to them.  If I find any more information like where he’s burried I will post it here. Mean time. I just hope for both my father’s sakes that I can talk to that woman again if she calls.