After Momma let her caregiver go on vacation for two weeks and not telling me in advance, no pharaoh, I helped Momma move back to Tulsa. Momma’s daughter and nephew had moved into her house, though I’d warned her against letting this happen and of course, in possession, didn’t want to let Momma move back in.
Nevertheless, Momma with my help was able to move back in to live in the den, a bigger room near the kitchen. I built a nice wheelchair ramp for her in 1990. From 1990 to 2001 when Momma’s daughter finally moved out, Momma was Banished in Place.
Banished in Place: Squatting in Her Own House
Momma may have had some fantasy that she was going to help with The Boy, my nephew, but she was as a stray dog squatting in her own house. When Momma was living in Houston, she was still paying my Momma’s daughter’s bills. Only later did I figure out that was part of the reason Momma reneged on our agreements and left me holding the $3000 a month bag. Naturally, she’s still paying all the bills in the house where she isn’t welcome with a policy of various psychological tortures.
Banished in Place: Confined
Initially, Mary, her live-in caregiver could use the kitchen, but had to sleep first in a chair in Momma’s room and after a while that was liberalized to the sofa in the living room though there was a free bedroom available. When my Momma’s daughter cooked, my mother wasn’t offered any until it was spoiling, and then only to shirk the responsibility of having to throw it out and clean up.
Eventually Momma was confined to a small office refrigerator depending on Meals on Wheels, the milk spoiling as that refrigerator failed. My Momma’s daughter eventually settled the whole house with various Hoarder junk and bulk food cramming the refrigerator.
So that in 1995, I went back to Tulsa to try to get a trust to stop this elder abuse. Momma insisted that I put a clause in it promising to take care of my hate-impaired Momma’s daughter for the rest of her life. But, I was willing to do whatever it took to rescue Momma from the situation. When I contacted Adult Protective Services, they were apparently well aware of the situation but Momma would always block them in family court.
It’s like Buddy next door, Momma couldn’t be declared incompetent because she was lucid, and because it wasn’t physical abuse, they couldn’t do anything before, but were thrilled that now that I had become trustee, I could do something about it.
It ain’t necessarily so. I ran into the same thing they did. Momma’s trust was revocable so when I’d try to do anything to mitigate the situation, Momma would say; I’ll say I’m fine with the situation and revoke the trust. Of course the bank wasn’t going to sign off on such a ridiculous document that some grown miscreant be taken care of forever as though this is a millions dollars estate.
Periodically, my Momma’s daughter and nephew would make forays into enemy territory to encourage Momma to hurry up and die. I was visiting one time, and my nephew, like the little trained puppy that used to carp at his father with the talking points he’d been given before his father stopped calling him, is lambasting my mother like a parrot; Polly wants the cracker of you need to hurry up and move out or die. This story gets droll in the same for over a decade.
My nephew didn’t call as Momma was dying though I tried really hard to get in touch with him including buying an international phone card, sending emails repeatedly. He never called. Of course, my in town Momma’s daughter didn’t come to her burial. My Momma’s daughter’s murderous heart, that taught my nephew to have no honor, felt justified in anything she did because she had been wronged when I was born. She wanted Momma to hurry up and die and leave her the house and whatever money might be there, so she could buy more clothes to hoard.
Such is her metareligion that after a childhood friend’s father died, she and my nephew moved into the house, theoretically to keep it occupied so that it would be less vulnerable to thieves and vandals. She got into a hassle with the childhood friend because she wanted him to pay all the utilities and expenses she’d never had to pay living on my parents all her life.
She couldn’t understand the idea of having to pay her own utilities to live in someone’s house free. With an income then, I offered to pay all her expenses if she moved into a rental for six months, but after the six months, that would be it, no more. She refused. The childhood friend couldn’t show the house for her and The Boy tearing it up like wild animals. When she finally moved out, she took everything that wasn’t nailed down with her to then completely occupy the living room with miscellaneous stolen junk.
A person who feels diffusely victimized as Separation Anxiety Disorder, no matter what anyone says or does, is going to victimize anyone who gets within range because they were ‘done wrong.’ Anyone who tried to befriend her would eventually run into the demand that they sacrifice their lives for hers, to ‘make it right.’
Owed Her Nothing
That childhood friend owed her nothing. In some warped reality, it could be alledged that my parents were guilty by association of having me as the cause of her Nakba, but like a Radical Islamist or an old-South Republican, the world needs to pay.
There’s nothing akin to yetzer haTov for anyone, her grand accomplishment of reproduction reduced to a can-opener to get whatever. While that worked with my parents, where does the responsibility of the childhood friend come in? She’s her only Us, and the rest of the world is the Them that needs to pay.
She will never be moved, will never change her mind because it’s the core of who she is. Take that away, and it’s an annulment, never happened. Momma had no rights or consideration other than encouragement to leave or die. When her caregiver was a few days late coming back from vacation, Momma had to call the neighbor next door, who’s funeral I went to though I won’t go to church.
Exposure On Spartan Stones
Banishment in Place is invalidation without the direct Murder of Cain for Abel, exposing the person on Spartan stones against their survival rooted in the same enmity and Hate Cain employed to justify Murder.
Half of the story here, is that this Metareligion of no yetzer tov expands to encompass the guilty by association of loving a misunderstood Timmy-Joe the monster as well as the innocent childhood friend. Some souls of yetzer hara are incapable of compassion, forgetabout mercy, but in a total disconnect from any concept of Justice, steals and vandalizes the legacy of the childhood friend’s parents who’s being compassionate.
When I was in my freshman year in medical school, two college ‘friends’ and I moved into a three bedroom apartment off Adelphi Road, Washington Towers I think it was. I’d worked three jobs at a time while going through Amherst College for a total of at least thirty-three hours a week, and all summer every summer. My parents were scared to send me ten dollars because they thought somebody might think they had money and ask them for some.
So when we first moved into that apartment, from the money I’d labored hard and long while trying to do school was eaten down with two other grown rusty-butt men because I ‘had money.‘ Finally, when my money ran out, I told them I’m broke now. They said no problem, let’s go to the store. In the check-out line, two basketfulls checked, time to pay, they pointed to me. I’d told them I was out of money.
From that day forward, Bill Wooten formally hated my guts. He’s the closest thing to Momma’s daughter’s murderous heart I’ve ever experienced. I was privileged because I had both parents and he was dumped onto relatives. I was privileged because I worked all day and studied all night. As Momma’s daughter, he was owed. I wasn’t the mother that dumped him on the curb, but I might as well have been. The atmosphere in that apartment was absolutely toxic. Like living in a psychological sewer.
Hate like that, and I’m as certain as the sky that he’s doing well, his wife the top of the line where we went to college, none luckier, but still a hater to the core of his Black Hole as-soul. That’s how I can relate to beyond my mother not being able to use her own refrigerator in the house she owned where she was paying all the bills. Their fuming Hate, like waves off the desert wilderness sand at high sun is corrosive and truly sickening.
Hate-mongers: Black Holes as-souls
Hate-mongers are a plaque on the earth, beyond locusts that pass eventually, as long as they’re living, it is what it is. I know that some people, as my Momma’s daughter and Bill Wooten are fixed in time, souls fossilized in petrifying Hate. Locked in a diffuse sense of Injustice that then becomes diffuse in reflection.
No one deserves the way Momma was treated by my Momma’s daughter, as I didn’t deserve to have a lifetime of Hate of a faithless mother discharged on me for running out of money. The childhood friend who declined to pay the interest and penalties of hate unrequited was only guilty by association of a good deed.
Some people are being banished in place as my mother was in her own house. As I was under the man-as deity administration of Bill Wooten. It’s existentially impossible that everyone among any given group deserves to be laid on Spartan stones by an occupation of sickening hostility.
I understand Momma’s daughter and Bill Wooten as fixed from their born souls in yetzer hara as who they are, but I will not turn that around and extend it to the rest of the world as they do. Their hate is corrosive acidic, Black Holes as-soul from which no light can escape. Any entering their space doesn’t escape without a dose of hate. No one can come away without scars.
Messages of Hate
Under the religiosity that I share, settling in Greater Israel is my Civil Right. I’ll never stop. However, that doesn’t mean that the food I cook is off-limits until it’s rotten meat for the Native Americans on the reservation. That doesn’t mean that the food of democracy and rights can’t be shared, that the only interaction needs to be the nephew jack-boot stomping around in Momma’s room to deliver messages of hate.
I’m so fed up with Hate and haters that words fail, but my Awe of HaShem doesn’t believe that increasing but stopping the hate is what souls of yetzer haTov move the spirit to do, in compassion for All suffering, and mercy for themselves. If we don’t find the faith to tell the truth that there is an Us amongThem, that there are afflicted souls of yetzer haTov to be saved among every people, we’ll be as irrelevant in the World to Come as those who reject compassion for any suffering other than their own. That is a definition of a hater. I Will fulfill my obligation to do the right thing.