The Obligation

Sometimes too much of what I do seems like an obligation. There are the usual obligations like work and social reciprocation, and there are the daily things that must be done such as washing, brushing, cleaning, paying bills, and preparing food. Somehow meeting obligations takes the bulk of my time.

Getting mail has become a dreaded activity. I used to look forward to getting letters and magazines, but now I get guilt bomb letters from my mother and bills. The bills I expect are fine, it is getting sideswiped with charges I didn't make, fees, and refusal of insurance coverage that is wearing me down. My cell phone bill was sky high last month because I spent hours on the phone trying to sort out these issues I did nothing to create.

The letters from my mother are worse. They usually make me so upset I can't sleep. Then, I am upset, tired, and not thinking properly for days. I should throw her letters away without reading them.

A major cause of my distress is her distorted thinking. She writes things she would never say to me. She implies that she is incapable of surviving on her own and that it is my duty to take care of her. Her arguments are insane; it infuriates me that she is sufficiently devoid of reason to write out her rationalizations and send them to me.

My mother is a 63 years old welfare queen. She enjoys imagining herself in poor health, but aside from being obese, is fine. For reasons I cannot fathom, she is convinced that she is not capable of working. She seems to believe it was her birthright to have others care for her. When she was married, she was a full time wife and mother although she only had one child to look after and the house wasn't exactly spotless.

She is lucky to have gotten a pension of approximately $30,000 a year from my father as part of her divorce settlement. Of course, her view is that she is entitled to more. She is convinced she has been denied what she deserves.

Unfortunately, she was enabled by my grandfather who continuously paid her way when she found herself over her head in debt. Now he is gone, she has squandered her sizable inheritance from him, and she is coming to me with her hand outstretched.

It infuriates me that I worked hard to put myself through college without the help of my family and have scrambled my entire adult life to make a living, and now that I am laid off she has the nerve to send me a six page letter telling me it is my obligation to move back home and take care of her.

I have worked since I was 14 years old. I would be delighted to get a $30,000 check every year for doing nothing. If my grandfather's inheritance had gone to me, it would be earning interest now.

I can't let myself think about what has happened and how stupidly my mother has acted. There is nothing I can do to change her behavior. The past cannot be revisited. It just makes me angry and depressed.

However, her letters thrust her self-created problems on me. It is the ultimate insult that when I am in crisis my mother sees it as an opportunity to get me to abandon my aspirations to do her bidding.

I don't know a way to resolve the problem that is my mother, except through humor. Now I wish I hadn't torn up her letter upon reading it (a fact that would mortify her). In the future I should keep her toxic missives and mine them for their absurdities. Perhaps I could compile them in a book: A Treasury of Letters from the Insane.

I am Not Going to Freak Out

The moment I heard that Dr. Goldman left a message on my voicemail, I knew it wasn't going to be good news.

In addition to biopsies in my intestines, I also had a biopsy of a small growth on my shoulder last week. In comparison to the colonoscopy, this procedure at the dermatologist was an after thought.

In fact, I had watched the thing bloom on my shoulder for months before pointing it out during my annual exam. It didn't display the classic characteristics of skin cancer: dark color or irregular border. Dr. Goldman gave me a cream to put on it, and I expected it to go away.

But a month later it was still there and he did a biopsy.

Now I know it is basal cell carcinoma. Skin cancer.

I've had it before, and I am not as worked up as I was the first time. But I am still reeling from the fact that there is cancer in my body.

He thinks removal of more skin from the area will take care of it, but he wants it done quickly.

I have 3 lovely scars on my body where moles have been removed. It is incredibly petty, but I am depressed about getting a scar on my shoulder.

It feels like there is less and less of me that is still pretty and I am about to lose another pretty piece.

This reminds me of the ugly truths one learns while growing up. I tend to think these realizations -- parents have faults, a person who loves you one day can be indifferent the next day, people who seem nice can be dishonest -- happen in adolescence or young adulthood.

But I am confronted by disappointment over and over again. This is the way life is. As I age, I will look worse and worse. My diet, mobility, and energy will be curbed. And I have to learn ways to cope with it. This process will last a lifetime.

How to be Grateful

My family is difficult, and I wish it were not this way. Basically, it is a good holiday if there isn't any screaming or crying.

This holiday it was just me and my mother. My sister lives in Arizona, and she is a person with a lot of problems. She was just fired from her job. She has been fired from every job she has ever had. It is a challenge to be around her, so I am glad she wasn't able to join us.

It is a struggle to find a silver lining in my family situation. My close relations are a burden. I strive to be supportive and understanding but also maintain a healthy distance.

A strategy that I am late to employ, is to try to conjure compassion for my mother. She has very poor judgement, which hurts her and those around her. It helps to try to figure out why she does the things she does. I attempt to cut her some slack, although I lose patience too often.

I have always used humor to cope. I try to regard what my mother says and does as a spectator. Her show would be funny if my proximity to her didn't render it tragic.

She lives in a townhouse crammed with stuff. It is almost impossible to get something out of a cabinet without having to move something else. Often things fall out when she tries to remove something, and then she curses as if she is surprised that there is a problem.

Her enormous pantry is so packed, there isn't room to add a single soup can. Her refrigerator is also stuffed with food. Yet, she insisted she needed to buy several bags of groceries to make Christmas dinner. I tried to convince her to take inventory before shopping, but my suggestions are not welcome.

She has a medium to large dog that is not properly housebroken. There are accident pads strewn all over the floors yet she insists the dog is housebroken. She controls which rooms the dog can enter by placing several childproof gates in the doorways. These are old gates that do not swing open. They are held in place with a tension bar mechanism that too often causes injury to operate. These gates block pathways and make an already cluttered house feel even more claustrophobia-inducing.

She lives in an area where cars are necessary to get around. Her car was given to her when my grandfather died 10 years ago. It is approximately 14 years old, and it shows. The locks are broken, the paint is wearing off, the indicator lights are not accurate, and the door alarm signal runs continuously (ding, ding, ding...). She lives on a meager pension, refuses to get a job to supplement her income, and does not put any money aside to buy a car.

I try to be patient with her, but after several days I get upset. Her situation depresses and angers me. It alarms me that she doesn't realize that her choices are unreasonable.

Yesterday, I borrowed the car to run an errand. As I was driving what my Michigan relatives would call a "beater," it struck me that one reason I get so agitated when I visit her is because I hated being in such a precarious environment while growing up. My mother hopes battered stuff would continue to work and deals with problems by ignoring them. Her car is a tangible expression of her approach to life.

As I drive and try to ignore the continual door ajar signal, I am concerned that a new car problem will emerge. I was reminded that when I was still living with my parents, I was continuously fearful of problem eruptions. When problems bloomed into affairs that could no longer be ignored, the response was surprise, anger, and despair.

As an adult, I've worked very hard to make my life as stable as possible. I save money for emergencies. I am annoyed when things break, but I am not ruined when they do. I try to avoid problems by addressing warning signs. My approach isn't perfect, but it is a improvement on that of my parents.

Now I realize that my mother has chosen this precarious existence. It is stressful and very unpleasant, yet she can't seem to see the logic in working her way out of it.

I know how bad that way of life is because I had no choice but to live it when I was a kid. I feel so very sorry that she is in this situation. Yet I am frustrated because she does little to improve her circumstances.

If I could, I would give her insight for Christmas. Unfortunately, this is something only she can do for herself.