Why I don’t celebrate Mother’s Day

As the calendar goes along, we all eventually find ourselves on the day where we are supposed to celebrate moms. It should be a good, joyous occasion, full of family get-togethers and praising of the work our mothers do and did for us in the years gone by and all that they will do for us in the years to come.

But I can’t, because I never had a mother worth celebrating.

My mother was bad, when she was there. Usually she was traveling around for work and we were left to our own devices for things like homework and dinner-our parents divorced early on, due to her having an affair and outright refusing to fix the situation with dad. When she was home, her time was spent screaming at us about the state of the house. It was always never clean enough, no matter what. She’d scream at us and throw things and get so mad and we took it, because according to her, living with dad was a punishment. At least it seemed that way when she threatened to send us there.

Half the time I lived with her she was screaming mad and the other half she was bemoaning her position in life. When I was eventually cast out (I said “no” to her once) I tried to keep the relationship going and would go see her when she saw fit to see me, which wasn’t very often. One such time, not soon after the casting, she used her time with me to tell a sad pathetic tale of how poor she was and how she could barely take care of the siblings who were left-a little manipulation of the heart strings. It was funny in retrospect as she had not long before gone to my psychiatrist to tell her what a bad son I was. She loved manipulating people. It was the only thing she loved.

Now, years after I finally cut her out of my life, she is trying to reconnect. “Call me,” she says. “Look at this and remember me” she says. I remember well enough. I remember the last thing she ever said to me, sent via text after I caught her talking ill of me on Facebook:

Kiss my ass.

And all that is why I can’t celebrate today.