An email arrived this morning from a friend. She told me about the way her husband's mother treated him, how he hated her and how the guilt besieged him all his life. She wrote to me because, after a glass of wine, I talked about my own mother, without love, and then the next morning was wracked with guilt and sent her a sad little email.
It is, after all, not done to complain about one's mother. Mother love being unconditional and precious and the foundation of one's happy childhood. Well it is for those that have it.
And now my mother needs support and its down to me to provide it, and so a glass of wine can prompt me to say it how it is. Loads of women my age have parents who need support, you see them running themselves ragged for 10 years and more, but its hard to relate to them because they love their parents and I am stuck with someone who has simply been horrid to me all my life. Its the pretending. Pretending I'm doing it for love because its easier that way. Well, anyway, people assume I'm doing it for love and for the most part I don't disillusion them. And I absolutely do not want to become a boring and bitter person always banging on about what a hard time I am having because there is a huge amount of my life that is simply fab.
So that understanding email from my friend is very precious.
And, very selfishly, I am going to desert my mother for a couple of months or so in the autumn and leave her, and hopefully my unmentionable problem, very far behind as I gad off to somewhere very far away! Hooray!
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