This is a strange topic for me, because despite my snippy nature, I am not at all cold. I have recently discovered the joy of coldness. It is not something I relish, as it means I am becoming the bitter old bitch I was apparently destined to be.
I wrote a letter to my siblings today. In fact I wrote two. The first one was irate. Why was I irate? After another month of blisteringly hard rehab, during which I restored my mother’s ability to walk, my sister went out and bought herself a wheelchair, for my mother to use only when out with her.
After years of cancelled arrangements for the two hours off per week my sister seems to think I deserve, I do realise that this is just typical behaviour from this person. I disowned my siblings several years ago, and even now they will claim that I have caused the problem even though they have experienced none of the attacks they have forced on me.
I am a very direct person. If I am annoyed, I will say so. If you pretend not to understand, I will cut you off. The rules are pretty simple. If I enjoy your company, you may be given a few more chances but generally speaking, three strikes and you are out.
Wolfe and Twisty have both had considerably more than three chances. Aldous also got more than three chances. Sometimes I am pretty tolerant. Too tolerant. I have wasted decades on trying to make some relationships into something they are not. When I say this I mean pleasant, reciprocal. I mean that the underlying assumption was that the people concerned were basically OK, and circumstances got in the way.
My family, likewise got years of chances before I wrote them off, and then assumed that they could bully their way out of it. When they realised it wasn’t working, they tried bullying my mother. I was not impressed by this, and had I allowed them to continue, they would have caused themselves a lot of legal problems.
So today, I put my absent brother in charge of the ugly sisters, and I put the drunk in charge of the lunatic. I announced that I would not be putting myself in a directly hostile situation, which is a bit rich considering that I have lived in one for twenty years, and that they were to look after themselves, with the inevitable infighting this will cause. The drunk will not enjoy that one bit. The lunatic will try to persuade the other two that as she is the richest, she is still calling the shots, from a different country, whilst nobody listens to her tiresome shrieking any more. Once you are in your sixties, manipulative girlishness loses its effect.
I feel absolutely nothing. You would think I would be happy, having manoeuvered them into a situation that means none of them have the excuse to bother me, but I feel nothing at all. I just wonder why I wasted so much time being terrified and anxious. I should have been able to do this years ago. I probably wouldn’t be headed for a stroke if I had. I wasted a lot of time waiting for my mother to take care of her own children, and she had no intention of ever doing it. Why she bothered having them, I have no idea.
I will not go into how I got through the major family issues as it is covered in the next book, but suffice to say that my mother would have a lot to thank Wolfe for, if only she or he knew. Today, however, I dealt with them. They can kick and scream as much as they want. I just don’t care.
Recognise Carers as Workers
Artist, author