I seem to spend half my time on this blog and on Twitter criticising her for her occasional bad points, but I so rarely acknowledge the goodness in her. My father tortured her for over 20 years, and her life hasn’t been a bed of roses since either, not entirely but at least in large part down to me.
I never know how to tell her that I love her. She’s nearly 70 and I don’t think she knows. Sometimes I wish I was more tactile and ostensibly ‘feeling’ so as I could tell her, but it seems to beyond my grasp. How pathetic.
She deserved a better life than my father gave her, and she deserves more appreciation from me for who she is and for what she’s done. Life is finite and I spend half my own existence in a state of raw terror every time I phone her and she doesn’t answer that she’s dead. That’s bad enough, but it would be me that would have to deal with the hideous consequences of it. I probably couldn’t do it, but that’s another matter. But what wouldn’t be fair to her would be for her to die and not know much she was loved, valued and appreciated by me.
I hope I have lots of time left with her, but I don’t know if I can ever be the person that I should be – the person that is capable of genuinely expressing my love to her, because that’s all she’s ever really hoped for in return for all she’s done for me.
But I’m pathetic.