The Monkey

This is dedicated to all the Flying Monkeys out there.

Well I was unprepared for that. I have to say I thought better of you. I have to say I was wrong. You showed up at my house pushing Mother’s nasty and hateful agenda and once again I’m left feeling helpless, hopeless and hurt.

Do you really presume to know her better than I do? Do you really think you know the woman that pulverized my self-esteem with her evil words? The woman that destroyed my sense of safety with her evil fists? The woman that destroyed my relationships with her evil lies, manipulations and smear campaigns? The woman that cannot love anyone but herself?

Do you not think I have a valid reason for cutting Mother out of my life? Do you think I’ve come to this decision lightly? Or do you really think that I am just that petty and immature?

While you smugly sit there and tell me (more than once!) that “Momma J” (how foul and untrue) has never been anything but WONDERFUL to you and has ALWAYS spoiled you. I wonder how you wanted me to feel as you repeated those words to me. I wonder how you felt as you sat there and repeated those words to me. Did it make you feel good? Did it make you feel special? Superior? Did you like driving it in to me that my Mother treats a virtual stranger better than she ever did her own daughter?

Do you really sit there and presume to know me? Do you really think you know who I am? I can count on both hands how many times you’ve met me. How do you think you know me? Do you know me because some woman play acting at being a mother tells you who I am? Because you certainly haven’t gotten to know me by witnessing my own words and actions. Do you dare sit in my home and make generalized assumptions about what kind of person I am? You do. And you did. And then you fucking compare me to her. You fucking tell me I’m like her. Do you have any idea how sick that is?

You sat there, and you trivialized me. You sat there and trivialized my life experience. You trivialized the abuse, the fear, the pain and the trauma. C’est la vie. It doesn’t matter.

I sit here with a knife in my gut every day. I look at the people around me and wonder how much their mother loves them. Or do their mothers hate them as much as Mother hates? I wonder how someone’s life can go so intrinsically wrong that she is incapable of feeling actual love for her children. I sit here and know that I will never know how it feels to be deeply loved and cherished by my own mother.

And so, I thank you. Thank you for coming into my safe place that I have carefully created for myself and bringing her poison with you.  Thank you for invalidating every fucked-up thing she has ever done to me. And most of all, thank you for making sure I know how wonderful and spoiled you feel by having her in your life. I’m sure you deserve her. You really do. I wish you luck and I hope it never backfires on you because nobody deserves the damage she has done and will continue to cause for all of the people around her.

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