She lived almost her entire life alone.  Sixty-something when she died…  Alone…  I told her she would.  She was hateful.. Mean.  Vile.  Bitch.  Depressed.  Sick.  Paranoid schizophrenia was her diagnoses.  No hope in the world should have been written in her chart.  She was my mother.  She lived…  Maybe 5 years of her life….  Longer?  I don’t know.  She was gone long before she gave birth to me.  I’d often find her lying in bed, just as I am now…. Alone… In the dark…  At 7:30 on a Friday night.  No TV on…  No light…  And I finally understand why.  She was alone.  She had successfully isolated herself.  The nothiness.  When you’ve passed depression….  When you’ve come to the point where you just sit….  Stare..  Smoke in a dark room…  Ashtray spilling over with yesterdays cancer. Sleep…  Sleep….  Sleep….

Because what in the hell is there to wake up for?  

I am becoming my mother.  She died in this house.  She died in her house before here.  She cried when she came back here.  She knew she was being put away to die.  She wanted to stay with me.  Are you kidding?  No!  I never considered it!!  She beat me everyday for years!  Well, until I was sent off to live in a children’s home…  Then when I got back and she hit me… I was strong enough to hit back.

Take that bitch.   You won in the end.  I’m as fucked up as you.  Sure, I’m more educated…  Got the fancy college I worked so hard at until I lost my fucking mind in the middle of campus….  

All’s well that ends….  All is well that ends….  

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