My mother was a twice diagnosed psychopath (Antisocial Personality Disorder, co-morbid with Borderline Personality Disorder). My father suicideded himself, also flat lining my brother and myself, on Christmas night when I was 5 years old. I don't know if he was intentionally trying to take us with him or if he was too absorbed in his own emotional bullshit to consider that we were even there. None-the-less, to my mother's dismay, I survived.
She spent the next several years attempting to passively aggressively have me killed via situational circumstances, and when all else failed she finally abandon me to a child trafficking/prostitution ring. Again, to her dismay, I survived.
I became an adult. I became a mother myself and did my best to avoid her, and learn what it meant to live a normal life.
She smoked her way into lung disease at a very young age, and until my late thirties would whirlwind her way into my life anytime she temporarily burnt all of her bridges; under the guise of me being obligated to take care of my poor, old, diseased mother. I could not say no. I knew how it would end. I knew the damage I was in for, but I could not say no. Until about 4 or 5 years ago.
One day I told her goodbye, that I would never see or speak to her again, and I bailed. I packed up my son, husband, and all our shit and drove. I didn't stop driving for 2k miles. I've been hiding from her ever since. She died not having a clue where I was or knowing anything about my life. She died...slowly suffocating to death...cared for by strangers just earning a check -- but probably still receiving more care or human dignity that she could ever muster for me. I found out last night she is finally fucking dead. I am free.
Today as I was leaving to run errands and my husband says "Happy Birthday!" I was like, "WUT?" I forgot today was my birthday. I always do. He is good about not making a "deal" out of it, which makes me uncomfortable as I am not used to being celebrated. I was grocery shopping and grabbed some steaks and champagne. Fuck it, I feel good today. I am free.
That triggered the memory of the first time I got drunk on champagne. It was shortly after my dad died, so I was 5 or 6 years old. My mother and her Luciferian cokehead friends thought it would be hilarious to fill up a big gulp cup with alcohol and have me drink it. I remember falling off a bar stool, landing on my only good arm (the other one was already broken and hardcasted). They laughed and laughed. I remember watching in horror as my mother's devil worshiping boyfriend suffocated my dog to death by shoving garbage down her throat until she could no longer breathe. They laughed and laughed.
It's kind of poetic to me that my mother also suffocated to death, hopefully staring into the eyes of some unbeknownst nigger just as evil as she was.
Tonight I'm gonna get drunk on champagne with the people who love me.
She who laughs last