Nobody's perfect...

I have the best intentions. Really I do. Sure, I get pissed occasionally and fly off the handle and I'm sure I complain too much and I have this tendency to wallow but ... and this is a big but (almost as big as my own) ... I am, to my core, a good person that would not hurt a flea on purpose. This tends to make me somewhat of a doormat, though I am trying to change that.

Typically, the frustration and chaos of anger (both mine and from others) causes me to melt down. This, of course, puts me in a precarious position when dealing with a toxic person, especially someone that knows me well enough to try to take advantage of my inner turmoil. I also know what it is like to be berated, threatened and frightened ... a lifetime with verbal abuse makes me very empathetic ... and that, along with my tendency to get tongue-tied and teary-eyed, is probably the main reason why I try to avoid confrontation like the plague.

When I do finally blow up, I try to never aim my anger directly at anyone that doesn't deserve it. Anger, especially pent-up anger, can hurt as much as a balled fist to the solar plexus, especially when it's undeserved and it catches you off guard. For the most part, I will bite my tongue until I can handle things in a diplomatic way. At times this manifests itself as a distant glowering but, honestly, I would rather hold back until I can sort through my thoughts and present a calm, rational facade. Many times, during these silent simmers, I've been taken advantage of because I could not speak or stand up for myself. Once I finally do get mad and let people know how I feel, I get on firmer ground but, man, do I suck at it.

Where is all this emotional spelunking leading us? Well, as you may have noticed if you read this blog at all, I'm buying a townhouse. You may also have noticed that I was waiting until I knew it would go through before telling my mother. Long story short, I have a lot riding on this and, being the superstitious Irish lass that I am, I'm afraid to count my chickens and, even more afraid to tell my mom I have chickens.

Hmm ... where was I? Pretty bad when I lose track of my own analogy. I'll attribute that to it being very stressed out as I try to get through the very end of a very bad year on top of trying to orchestrate moving a household and coordinating the renovation of our media center. You can understand that, right? Really? You can?? Then why can't my mom, who has known me and how I work for 43 years?

What I'm trying to get at (yes, I finally did remember ... shut it) is that I told my mom. And it did not go well. Rather than being happy/proud of me, she was mad that I had not told her anything and how could I have left her out of my decision and isn't she important enough to tell and no one cares about her anymore ...

It got ugly.

I actually stood up to her, something I don't do because she pulls the 'poor me' crap but just the fact that this was SO important to me and she was trying to make it about her pissed me off. She hung up on me without asking me about the house.

The next time we spoke (I called) she didn't mention the house at all.

The next time we spoke (I called again) she finally asked a question or two about it but every answer I gave her was met with a snide (to my ears) comment so my remaks became perfunctory until she got the message and we got off the phone.

F*ck you, Ma.

There, that was what I really wanted to tell her. I'll let it go now and move on. After all, I have a new house to move into. *crossing fingers*