Had dinner with mom who is now trying to figure out what to do with all the time on her hands – so she paces the apartment and worries and grows increasingly more paranoid. She blamed me for her bad lab report saying that it was my words in there – “her apartment is like a pharmacy” – “she smokes incessantly” – “she had a breatholater in one hand with a lit cigarette in the other”. I stared her down and told her she couldn’t make me feel bad because I was pointing out the obvious. She said, “you don’t get me.” And I said, “you’re right, I don’t get you.”
She tried to think of other reasons and people to blame for her predicament – sputtering one negative sentiment after another – victimhood – she wants to be the reigning queen of victimhood – she and my sister battle for this glory.
But I told her – I don’t care if she’s a heroin addict, I love her anyway. But don’t look at me with the needle in your vein and say it’s not real. My only advice is – if this is the life you choose – why not try moderation – why not drink a little less, smoke one less cigarette and force a smile on your face. I told her she should continue with the antidepressants but after reading an article in Harper’s about the nonsense of blaming mental problems on “chemical imbalance” – now I’m not so sure. I know what she has isn’t fixable. And I’ve read recently that rehab doesn’t work either. But all I’m working towards is trying to be a good daughter to a mother who keeps driving the speeding car like a bat out of hell right towards the edge of the planet.
I left with a kiss and told her I had one desire, do not go gentle into that good night, rage, rage, against the dying light.