Sewing Machine Abuse.

I hate being here.
Have I mentioned that?

I. hate. being. here.

I'm pretty sure my mother is demonstrating some very preliminary symptoms of Korsakoff's Syndrome. I know it seems a little... dramatic to say that.  But I'm not even fucking kidding. The woman drinks like a fish and eats like a bird. It's not a far stretch.

She doesn't remember a lot of shit and gets confused about things, randomly fills in details with details that seem to make sense to her, will repeat herself a lot, and get pissed off at people or often just ignore them when they call her on it.

So, for example: The Sewing Machine.

I got this awesome Hello Kitty sewing machine for Christmas.  Really big hairy deal.  It was the Christmas present.  I left it in the dining room for a couple of weeks, in the corner.  I go to get it out and it's not there.  My mother had moved it.  Of course, I let it go and just kept letting it go until she could no longer remember where she had put the damn thing.

At this point she doesn't even remember moving it really.
Because I came home today, to find an entirely different sewing machine in front of my door.

After spending a few weeks pestering her repeatedly about wanting my goddamn sewing machine.
I yelled down the stairs "This isn't my sewing machine. Mine was a Hello Kitty one"
"Well, then, I don't know"
"It was in the dining room"
"I don't know where it is then"

So I did what any reasonable crazy person would do after being trapped like an animal in a cage for lengthy periods of time with people who are [in a lot of ways] even more dysfunctional than myself.
I kicked the sewing machine into the wall, slammed my door and proceeded to beat it with my fists.

...I'm not proud. I don't like that very very occasionally I act like a cornered wild animal and just don't know what to do with myself. But this reaction is singularly restricted to being in this house, with my parents, for much more than a week. Obviously, it is not a good place for me to be.

I deal with legit insane people on the daily, some of whom don't want to take their meds and don't want anyone else to take meds either. Some of whom feel they are crusaders for anti-pharma, and also- they aren't crazy, there really are dogs in the neighborhood with transmitters in their teeth, but I wouldn't understand because I'm a woman. [doesn't make any sense, right? A good part of my job is getting these people to come around to a rational point of view]

Living here is still, by far, way more taxing and frustrating than trying to convince someone who won't take meds that "they" are not monitoring various individuals via canine dental apparatus.

My mother is poisoning herself. No one, least of all her, seems to care. But I'm stuck watching it.
They move my things all the time, and apparently it's my fault that my mother- whose cognitive decline seems to be set on "fast forward"- can't remember where she put something that I care about.

She could have just asked me to move it.
But then she'd have to remember, by the time she talked to me, what she was going to ask me.

That's just crazy.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Recommended Post Slide Out For Blogger