That would be me, judging by the scathing letter my mother sent me several days ago. She accuses me of many infractions some small, some tall, all add up to me being horrible, just horrible.
I took a moment for these letters are not uncommon. My usual tactic is to quietly seethe (ok, maybe not so quietly, but certainly in the privacy of my rooms) call her proceed in my own daughterly fashion. Whatever it was that had her riled up blows over and we're back to our kind of normal.
This time I responded with a letter of my own. I attached the OBGayborhood post of last year with a brief explanation and preface. I didn't respond to her specific charges in the letter but merely communicated the trials and tribulations of my so-called-life as it is manifested at this point and time. Long story short I'm working longer hours of late and don't have the luxury of time or the grace that is energy to do everything for everybody.
I must admit however, as patient as I am, have always been, my mother tries that part of me more than any other relative. Still, I endeavor to hold my sarcasm in check, quell down the snappish remarks and responses, and work to envelope her in a cloak of understanding.
In my letter I acknowledge her frustration, anger, depression, and disappointment. I assert that I will continue to do what I can, when I can to help in any way possible. My letter was mailed after work on Friday the day after receiving her letter.
Ironically, very early Saturday Mom called. She expressed a desire to go out on a journey that had nothing to do with doctors, therapy, or perscriptions. She was quite anxious. She was quite adamant, though she didn't know what she wanted to do, where she wanted to go, somewhere, anywhere.
My suggestions were all shot down in lieu of Navy Pier.
And so, we spent a compaionable Saturday together at my favorite place (that's that sarcasm I'm trying to hold in check) where we had lunch, watched people, and talked about things other than our relationship. I did mention her letter and that I'd responded in kind. To which she asked if I liked my "Memphis Dog" (as served by America's Dogs, Navy Pier: hot dog topped with bar-b-que sauce, pulled pork, and cole slaw).
I'm sure she has received my letter by now.
I'll call in a bit to find out about her electricity (blown out by yesterday's storm) and . . .
It is complicated?