I don’t want to play this game anymore.
When can I quit?
Are 37 years long enough?
How many times do I have to witness you pill yourself into a stupor yet again,
and again, and again, and again?
How many car accidents?
How many completely incoherent emails,
sent out of the blue, surprising me and sullying an otherwise nice day;
so that I’ve had to filter you out of my Inbox completely.
How many trips to the hospital; to rehab?
How many ruined family events, holidays, parties, gatherings must we all endure?
How many lost jobs? And your bosses contacting me.
How many phone calls must I dodge or screen,
because I never know if you’ll be sober or high?
Except when you call late at night – then I know for sure.
And I can tell within one breath. Despite what you want to believe.
How much of you interjecting your shit into everyone else's lives,
when they least need or want or can stand it;
when they have begged you not to.
When is enough, enough, of you breaking promises,
and then trying to win us back, smooth things over, with gifts or assurances?
How many more people will you suck into this...
Roller coaster.
Guilt.
Secrets.
Cycle.
Are 37 years long enough?
How much embarrassment can I bear to even be connected to you at all anymore,
because you are….my mother.
How much?
When?
Is it when my brother disowned you,
and told me he doesn’t regret it for one second?
Is it when my father finally decided to divorce you after 43 years of marriage;
probably the scariest thing he could ever do,
because he worries how you’ll survive without him,
because he doesn’t know how to be alone.
Is it when you started insulting, attacking me and my husband?
Throwing around incredibly asinine accusations?
Or is it when I contemplate what I’d say in your eulogy –
that I’d tell everyone it’s okay to feel relieved!!
Because I have thought about that, you know.
A lot.
What. the. fuck.
At what point are the good times no longer worth the bad?
You are always there;
hanging over me like the shoe that just won’t drop.
You will never stop.
You have told me you don’t want to.
You are out of control,
yet apparently indestructible.
I didn’t choose to have you in my life;
so how much (more) do I owe you because we are blood?
Inextricably linked.
Don't you know that I am not, and cannot not be, your therapist?
Taking sides.
Please stop telling me that I am your only reason to live…
Unfair.
Pressure.
Up and Down.
Jekyll and Hyde?
Cycle.
When does all this bad finally outweigh the good,
which really is in there, intermittently?
Will I ever not feel awkward when someone asks "how's your mom?"
Hiding. Covering up.
I don’t want this stress.
I don’t need this drama.
Trauma.
I am afraid to tell you where I work - you might show up again.
I had to take away your key to my house.
I could never let you babysit my children, were I to have any.
But I won't.
You are not a small reason.
What qualifies as the last straw?
Am I old enough and wise enough and mature enough now,
that I can make the decision to walk away?
Don’t I have to-- can’t I --
put my SELF, my needs, my wants,
first now?
Minus the guilt?
On a flat ground;
no roller coasters looming in the distance?
I think you are toxic to my sanity, to my comfort.
I don't trust.
You.
Because of you.
I can't play this game anymore.
When do I quit?
Are 37 years long enough?
They must be.
Are they?
Guilt.
When can I quit?
Are 37 years long enough?
How many times do I have to witness you pill yourself into a stupor yet again,
and again, and again, and again?
How many car accidents?
How many completely incoherent emails,
sent out of the blue, surprising me and sullying an otherwise nice day;
so that I’ve had to filter you out of my Inbox completely.
How many trips to the hospital; to rehab?
How many ruined family events, holidays, parties, gatherings must we all endure?
How many lost jobs? And your bosses contacting me.
How many phone calls must I dodge or screen,
because I never know if you’ll be sober or high?
Except when you call late at night – then I know for sure.
And I can tell within one breath. Despite what you want to believe.
How much of you interjecting your shit into everyone else's lives,
when they least need or want or can stand it;
when they have begged you not to.
When is enough, enough, of you breaking promises,
and then trying to win us back, smooth things over, with gifts or assurances?
How many more people will you suck into this...
Roller coaster.
Guilt.
Secrets.
Cycle.
Are 37 years long enough?
How much embarrassment can I bear to even be connected to you at all anymore,
because you are….my mother.
How much?
When?
Is it when my brother disowned you,
and told me he doesn’t regret it for one second?
Is it when my father finally decided to divorce you after 43 years of marriage;
probably the scariest thing he could ever do,
because he worries how you’ll survive without him,
because he doesn’t know how to be alone.
Is it when you started insulting, attacking me and my husband?
Throwing around incredibly asinine accusations?
Or is it when I contemplate what I’d say in your eulogy –
that I’d tell everyone it’s okay to feel relieved!!
Because I have thought about that, you know.
A lot.
What. the. fuck.
At what point are the good times no longer worth the bad?
You are always there;
hanging over me like the shoe that just won’t drop.
You will never stop.
You have told me you don’t want to.
You are out of control,
yet apparently indestructible.
I didn’t choose to have you in my life;
so how much (more) do I owe you because we are blood?
Inextricably linked.
Don't you know that I am not, and cannot not be, your therapist?
Taking sides.
Please stop telling me that I am your only reason to live…
Unfair.
Pressure.
Up and Down.
Jekyll and Hyde?
Cycle.
When does all this bad finally outweigh the good,
which really is in there, intermittently?
Will I ever not feel awkward when someone asks "how's your mom?"
Hiding. Covering up.
I don’t want this stress.
I don’t need this drama.
Trauma.
I am afraid to tell you where I work - you might show up again.
I had to take away your key to my house.
I could never let you babysit my children, were I to have any.
But I won't.
You are not a small reason.
What qualifies as the last straw?
Am I old enough and wise enough and mature enough now,
that I can make the decision to walk away?
Don’t I have to-- can’t I --
put my SELF, my needs, my wants,
first now?
Minus the guilt?
On a flat ground;
no roller coasters looming in the distance?
I think you are toxic to my sanity, to my comfort.
I don't trust.
You.
Because of you.
I can't play this game anymore.
When do I quit?
Are 37 years long enough?
They must be.
Are they?
Guilt.
Robin Donoghue
The sly and trusty Robinator is a square peg –
not fitting easily into any single category, living not just inside and outside of the box,
but all mixed up in a pile of them. She’s a walking contradiction (in the good way) –
having a wide, diverse range of interests, not being defined by any one thing,
and willing to try pretty much anything at least once.
Born and raised in Somerville, this lifelong athlete, foodie who almost always ends up with
pasta sauce on her (especially when it’s white) shirt, mother of two cats, free-spirited hippie at heart whose socks never match, is socially awkward, yet a flirt, too. She enjoys photography, traveling, generally being creative, and practically requires having pockets. When she grows up, she wants to get an RV and be a nomad with her dear husband, or live on a self-sustaining
intentional community with all the best people she knows and loves.
Powerful
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