After hanging up on mother last night (see Plurk), I’ve decided to treat today as a new start, of sorts. Hopefully, she will get the message and not call again. I will never again have her attempt to hold me accountable for her choices as if I were the mother and she the child. I will never again speak to her only to have my words twisted to mean what she wants them to mean, dismissed entirely, or to have her ask the same goddamn questions over and over like an interrogator trying to get the answer she wants. I will never again have to deal with her refusals to get help, or listen to whatever the delusional persecution of the month is. I will never again have to listen to her try to be sweet and buy my affections or play the innocent martyr--and she plays it so very well--only so that she can get self-righteously abusive around the next corner when there’s no one else to hear and the mood strikes.
It’s always words. She only tried to use her hand once, but she was too drunk for the strike to hit target.
Lately, my bedtime reading has been Forms of Heaven, a collection of Clive Barker’s plays. (Incarnations has his better ones, but I’ve read that book enough times to know it nearly by heart.) The play I’m starting on, today, is Paradise Street, which tells the story of a drab little street in the middle of a wintry Liverpool, which is transformed one day, when it receives a visit from Queen Elizabeth I and her entourage, traveling through time and bringing spring with them.
I’ve decided this is a good omen. I’ve always admired Elizabeth. Who needs a real mother when I can have queens and goddesses and writers and heroines... and myself and my freedom.