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rachg82I wanna go upstairs and punch my Mom in the face, right now. She's up there, ranting to my Stepdad's uncle about how she shouldn't have to take some sort of rehab class (I have no idea what she's talking about. I assume it has something to do with insurance. She was going to turn in her license today, but I don't think she did it), because it wasn't her fault that she got in all those accidents. BULLSHIT. Fucking bullshit. You guys have no idea how many accidents she's gotten in, over the years. No, really. No. Really. And I'm so motherfucking sick of her saying that's she's not an addict. Fuck you, you lying bitch. This is the first time in my entire life, that she's supposedly not taking anything. I'm apparently in a venting mood today, I feel like telling y'all about some shit. You guys feel like hearing a little about my Mom? How about a lot? .
She's overdosed on pills like three times in the last three years. Once before that, when I was eleven as well. She took too much shit, and went nutso in front of my friend and I. I lived with my Grandparents for a bit then, because she went into treatment. The other three times aren't involving what happenned the week of my birthday this year too (stopped taking lithium, went fucking crazy, second stay in the psych ward, in a year), which--as far as we know, anyway--supposedly wasn't caused by drugs. But who knows.
Summer after junior year: I get woken up by a phone call, from the police. She's wandering around town, totally out of her mind. They bring her home, and I spend the rest of the day, trying to keep her from falling down the stairs, or killing herself. Fast forward to the following summer. She goes crazy on drugs, and is manic with a capital M. She crashes her car, which had been in an accident a couple weeks prior (this wasn't a rare occurance for her, though). The next day, she switches it in for a sports car, that she can't afford. The following morning, we make her take it back (my sister and I, my stepdad was out of town, just like the time before, and the time after). The next night, she tells me she's not feeling right, and is going to drive herself to the ER (she's still assuring me that she hasn't taken any pills, mind you. She promised me that she hadn't. She got mad at me, and called me a bad daughter, for thinking she had). She promises me that she'll call me, when she gets there. Hours later, we haven't heard from her. Finally, I get a call from the police, asking if she's home. A man has called them with her license number, saying he saw her swerving around the roads, having hit some parked cars and driving off. A while later, the cops show up on my doorstep. I tell them "no, she's still not home." Couple hours later (this is the middle of the morning), the phone rings again. They've found her car, totally fucked up, on the side of the road. But she's nowhere to be found. Finally, she shows up at an ER, ranting and raving. I didn't go with my sister to the hospital that night, and from what I've heard from her, I'm very glad that I didn't. Later that morning, she brings Mom home. She's slurring her words, screaming like a madwoman, and basically psychotic in general. Yelling things like "I tried to kill myself, and it was all your guys's fault!" Corinne goes through the house, and finds pills everywhere. She finds Mom, in the backyard, trying to throw them over the fence. She also tries to flush them down the toilet. She'd hid them even in the kitty litter, outside by the side of the house. We had enough bottles to cover the coffee table's entire surface. We know there was more, too. Since she was so out of it, when we'd sit there and question her, she'd name other drugs that weren't even there. Like, my sister would pick up a bottle, and be like "What is this, Mom? What is it?" and she'd be all "Oh, that? That's just bla bla bla" trying to lie, and make it seem normal, when there were pills all over the table, and she could barely sit up straight. And my sister would be like "Wrong! But good to know!" Finally, my sister left, because she'd been up all night, and was skittering on the edge of losing it. Later that night, Joe got home. I stayed up most of the night, listening to her upstairs, screaming to herself, sobbing. The next day, Joe brought her to the hospital, trying to get her admitted to the treatment center she'd been at when I was eleven. But she was too pyschotic and messed up for it, so they put her in the psych ward. Then she went into treatment. But, again, left early. And then never went to meetings, or any of the shit she was supposed to do.
Like six months later, about a month after my Grandpa died (and she'd promised him that she'd never take drugs again), her work makes her go home early, because she's all out of it, and we find out she's been taking stuff again, and done too much. Once again with the slurring, and the craziness. I kind of freak out, and tell my Grandma I can't handle it again, and tell her she has to take her. I break out in hives, from the stress. For several weeks, my Mom lives with my Grandma. Then she comes home, promising it will never happen again. I think she went into treatment then too, I can't even remember now. Each time blends in with the others.
Since then, we've caught her trying to get pills and shit. Calling doctors, and all that (you wouldn't believe the lengths she used to go to, to get stuff. She'd call my doctors, and tell them I was having a horrible migraine, then take the prescription they'd write up for me. I lost a lot of doctors that way, never knowing why at the time). Yet she still stands there, saying the same bullshit she said after what happenned when I was eleven. It was an "allergic reaction" to medicine her doctor gave her. She "only took a couple pain pills, so what?" Uh-huh, right, Mom. I suppose it had nothing to do with the ten thousand other things you were taking as well? And how it wasn't all pain killers? And how you'd take enough to kill a horse, at a time? We'd look at the dates on the bottles, and she'd have gotten the bottle like the week before, and it'd be empty. And I suppose all the times it's happenned, and all the accidents she's been in, were coicidence? Okay. What. The. Fuck. Ever.
Hey, so wasn't that a fun story, kids? Sigh.
Okay, I'm editing this, because we had a conversation, and she admitted that the accidents weren't just because she had a "reaction." She said she knows she has a problem. I told her why it upset me, when she tried to act like all the times that shit happenned, it was just her being on a bad drug. It feels like she's downplaying shit that's been going on my whole life, that's caused me a lot of pain. You know? It's like "admit the truth, I deserve that much." Because not admitting it, is like not acknowledging what she put us all through. But, anyway. It turns out they're gonna wait till November, and see if the insurance can be brought down some, then they'll decide if they'll continue to pay for her to drive the cars as well or not.
She's overdosed on pills like three times in the last three years. Once before that, when I was eleven as well. She took too much shit, and went nutso in front of my friend and I. I lived with my Grandparents for a bit then, because she went into treatment. The other three times aren't involving what happenned the week of my birthday this year too (stopped taking lithium, went fucking crazy, second stay in the psych ward, in a year), which--as far as we know, anyway--supposedly wasn't caused by drugs. But who knows.
Summer after junior year: I get woken up by a phone call, from the police. She's wandering around town, totally out of her mind. They bring her home, and I spend the rest of the day, trying to keep her from falling down the stairs, or killing herself. Fast forward to the following summer. She goes crazy on drugs, and is manic with a capital M. She crashes her car, which had been in an accident a couple weeks prior (this wasn't a rare occurance for her, though). The next day, she switches it in for a sports car, that she can't afford. The following morning, we make her take it back (my sister and I, my stepdad was out of town, just like the time before, and the time after). The next night, she tells me she's not feeling right, and is going to drive herself to the ER (she's still assuring me that she hasn't taken any pills, mind you. She promised me that she hadn't. She got mad at me, and called me a bad daughter, for thinking she had). She promises me that she'll call me, when she gets there. Hours later, we haven't heard from her. Finally, I get a call from the police, asking if she's home. A man has called them with her license number, saying he saw her swerving around the roads, having hit some parked cars and driving off. A while later, the cops show up on my doorstep. I tell them "no, she's still not home." Couple hours later (this is the middle of the morning), the phone rings again. They've found her car, totally fucked up, on the side of the road. But she's nowhere to be found. Finally, she shows up at an ER, ranting and raving. I didn't go with my sister to the hospital that night, and from what I've heard from her, I'm very glad that I didn't. Later that morning, she brings Mom home. She's slurring her words, screaming like a madwoman, and basically psychotic in general. Yelling things like "I tried to kill myself, and it was all your guys's fault!" Corinne goes through the house, and finds pills everywhere. She finds Mom, in the backyard, trying to throw them over the fence. She also tries to flush them down the toilet. She'd hid them even in the kitty litter, outside by the side of the house. We had enough bottles to cover the coffee table's entire surface. We know there was more, too. Since she was so out of it, when we'd sit there and question her, she'd name other drugs that weren't even there. Like, my sister would pick up a bottle, and be like "What is this, Mom? What is it?" and she'd be all "Oh, that? That's just bla bla bla" trying to lie, and make it seem normal, when there were pills all over the table, and she could barely sit up straight. And my sister would be like "Wrong! But good to know!" Finally, my sister left, because she'd been up all night, and was skittering on the edge of losing it. Later that night, Joe got home. I stayed up most of the night, listening to her upstairs, screaming to herself, sobbing. The next day, Joe brought her to the hospital, trying to get her admitted to the treatment center she'd been at when I was eleven. But she was too pyschotic and messed up for it, so they put her in the psych ward. Then she went into treatment. But, again, left early. And then never went to meetings, or any of the shit she was supposed to do.
Like six months later, about a month after my Grandpa died (and she'd promised him that she'd never take drugs again), her work makes her go home early, because she's all out of it, and we find out she's been taking stuff again, and done too much. Once again with the slurring, and the craziness. I kind of freak out, and tell my Grandma I can't handle it again, and tell her she has to take her. I break out in hives, from the stress. For several weeks, my Mom lives with my Grandma. Then she comes home, promising it will never happen again. I think she went into treatment then too, I can't even remember now. Each time blends in with the others.
Since then, we've caught her trying to get pills and shit. Calling doctors, and all that (you wouldn't believe the lengths she used to go to, to get stuff. She'd call my doctors, and tell them I was having a horrible migraine, then take the prescription they'd write up for me. I lost a lot of doctors that way, never knowing why at the time). Yet she still stands there, saying the same bullshit she said after what happenned when I was eleven. It was an "allergic reaction" to medicine her doctor gave her. She "only took a couple pain pills, so what?" Uh-huh, right, Mom. I suppose it had nothing to do with the ten thousand other things you were taking as well? And how it wasn't all pain killers? And how you'd take enough to kill a horse, at a time? We'd look at the dates on the bottles, and she'd have gotten the bottle like the week before, and it'd be empty. And I suppose all the times it's happenned, and all the accidents she's been in, were coicidence? Okay. What. The. Fuck. Ever.
Hey, so wasn't that a fun story, kids? Sigh.
Okay, I'm editing this, because we had a conversation, and she admitted that the accidents weren't just because she had a "reaction." She said she knows she has a problem. I told her why it upset me, when she tried to act like all the times that shit happenned, it was just her being on a bad drug. It feels like she's downplaying shit that's been going on my whole life, that's caused me a lot of pain. You know? It's like "admit the truth, I deserve that much." Because not admitting it, is like not acknowledging what she put us all through. But, anyway. It turns out they're gonna wait till November, and see if the insurance can be brought down some, then they'll decide if they'll continue to pay for her to drive the cars as well or not.