My Mother Hates You

My mother was a hater before haters were a thing.  She hates everything and everyone with equivalent zeal.  It’s what makes her happy.

Her hatred is indiscriminate, sparing no one, particularly her own family.  I’ve spent my life trying to figure out why she’s like this.  

At present, she’s 86 years old.  I know irritability is a hallmark of the elderly, I suspect owing to their mounting physical ailments which no doubt prevent them from getting proper sleep.  Ironically, my mom couldn’t be healthier for a person her age.

True she doesn’t hear well.  And she has cholesterol issues which resulted in a heart surgery and minor stroke over the course of her years.  But otherwise, she’s as healthy as a horse.  In fact, she consumes so many supplements that her body will be preserved much in its current state long after the pyramids are reclaimed by the Sahara.

Nor can I connect her bad-temperedness to any sort of childhood trauma or injustice.  Best I can tell, she never spent a moment forgotten in an orphanage, toiling in a coal mine, or imprisoned on a slave galley.  My grandparents weren’t wealthy; nor were they indigent.  Their house was small but sufficient.  They always had food on the table.  My mother and her siblings are wearing clothes in all their family photos.

In most modern dictionaries, Mom’s photo appears next to the definition of “misery.”  She actively looks for the dark cloud in every silver lining.  She keeps a scolding finger pointed at the world, ever seeking someone or something to blame for all she believes that's wrong.  I attribute a healthy portion of this to Fox News which plays on her television 24/7.

 

My mom will sometimes give people the benefit of a doubt, waiting to hate them until they speak or move or breathe.  Most of the time, her disdain is instantaneous.  They say misery loves company.  My mother’s loneliness must be epic, as she never misses an opportunity to coerce others into joining her club.

  

“Look at that woman with curlers in her hair.  Who goes out of the house looking like that?” 

When she's out to dinner, she hates the noisy kids.  When watching college football, and she hates the coach’s beard or the color of the other team's uniforms.  The happy young couple has no business being happy.  Every emanation from her mouth, eyes, and posture reeks with scorn, disapproval, and judgment.  She doesn't understand why the grand kids avoid her.  Maybe they get enough negative reinforcement at home.

We’ve been living with her the past few months while our house is being rehabbed, which has provided me a unique insider’s perspective on this woman I’ve known most of my life. 

Mom loves to complain.  It’s her favorite pastime.  She’s never short on things she finds objectionable.   She insists we make ourselves at home, but complains when we use her stuff.  She expressed displeasure that we put our snacks on the kitchen counter.  When we moved them, she complained they were no longer there.  An Army mess sergeant in a former life, she always cooks enough for a platoon.  When the four of us can’t eat it all, she’s unhappy about having leftovers clogging her refrigerator.  When one of us eats the leftovers, she’s upset that someone stole her lunch.

Of course Mom isn’t all bad.  Deep down, she is a charitable person who cares.  She is drawn to happy, joyful people like a magnet, recognizing them as the type most needing her help.  She wastes no time reminding them of the countless things that could go amiss in their lives at any moment as a thoughtful means to protect them from disappointment. 

My sister and I are no exception.  We know she loves us because she never misses an opportunity to warn us of the dangers and misfortune lurking around every corner.  I feel guilty watching the enthusiasm drain from her face when I refuse to respond to questions like, “Are you having a difficult time making ends meet?” or “Aren’t you worried that you’ll lose everything when the market crashes?” or “I can’t imagine how disappointed you must with [your job, your spouse, your children]” or “What’s wrong?  I know there must be something wrong.”

Since my father passed, my childhood home has been circling the drain.  Even though my father rarely lifted a finger to do a thing around the house later in life, all those things have now accumulated into a war chest of needed repairs and improvements.  Since we moved in, I'm running out of fingers to plug the leaks in the dam.  Mom has expressed how grateful she is I’ve been around to address these myriad issues by complaining about the results.

She asked me to trim the tree next to the driveway, but didn’t understand why all those cut branches were piled in her parkway.  The new drier vent looks fine; too bad we had to break it in the first place.  She is routinely perturbed that the four of us generate so much garbage, but when one of us takes out the trash, she can’t understand why we would do such a thing.  

We have a little black dog named Maggie.  Maggie is an innately happy little creature with sawdust between her ears who parks herself on your feet until you rub her tummy.  For some reason, Maggie loves my mother.  She'll sit on the chair across from my mom's spot on the couch and stare at her for hours.  

Maggie’s happiness makes my mother uncomfortable.  I believe this is because my mom can’t understand what Maggie has to be so happy about.  In the first place, she's black.  Nor can she figure out how to crush Maggie’s naturally joyful spirit.  Apparently what works like magic on humans isn't as effective on dogs. People, it seems, are easy to bring crashing back to earth.  Dogs require a more concerted effort.

My daughters heard her complaining on the phone to my sister that she doesn’t understand what could possibly be taking so long with our house rehab, and she’s worried we're never going to leave.  Fortunately, our sentence is about to be commuted.  In two weeks, the movers will arrive, and she'll have her house back and us out of her hair.  I'm sure we'll never hear the end of it.

In truth, most of my mom’s behavior can be attributed to decades of alcoholism.  She went to counseling almost thirty years ago, but it never really took because she refuses to acknowledge that she has a problem.  In fact, she continues to drink to this day – red wine only because her doctor told her it’s good for her heart.  

It’s not the doctor’s fault.  We’re pretty sure she left the alcoholic part off her patient profile.