Waaaahhhh!!!!! You go away for one incy-wincy teeny-weeny weekend and certain important dynamics of your life change, seemingly irrevocably, in the interim. Isn’t life is a strange mistress indeed? I do love a good old-fashioned familial crisis. I mean, in real terms I suppose it isn’t ‘good‘, but at least something has actually happened in my pointless, meaningless existence for once. At the very least I have something (other than C, a subject that I still seem to be wont to avoid) to write about for a change.
The familial schism that I have consistently sought to avoid in keeping my gob shut about my history with Paedo has, apparently, happened entirely independently of my involvement. At the moment, this has nothing to do with me directly. However, I fear that a showdown is nigh.
Basically, my mother had the row to end all rows with Maisie McFaul on Sunday afternoon (whilst A and I were in Dublin, having been at an Iron Maiden concert on the Friday night). Maisie had been “spoiling for a fight” all weekend, I am told, and eventually my mother was so sick of her constant whinging and criticism of others that she finally responded. She was subsequently accused of neglecting her parents (because Maisie was such a saint in caring for them don’t you know – NOT!), of being a horrible and failing sister, of being a liar, etc etc etc. Sarah (my cousin), who was one of the people Maisie had spent all weekend slagging, and whom Mum had sought to defend, even started screaming at my mother. Then my fucking cousin Kevin waded in and threatened to kill my mother if she didn’t put an end to the row (“If you don’t put an end to this now, I’ll put an end to you”). Perhaps unsurprisingly, my mother packed her stuff and promptly left Hotel California, and is now vowing to never return. This is extremely excellent.
What is not so excellent is the effect this is having on my mother. She is not a perfect human being, as this blog will have attested to at many times. Furthermore, I am not enough of a dumb eejit to think that one side of the story is the whole story. Nevertheless, my mother acknowledges her part in the row, but is refusing to back down, as she has always done on when other unpleasantries with Maisie have been exchanged, regardless of who was in the wrong. Moreover, in my observed view, Maisie (whether consciously or otherwise) is an arch manipulator, on whose word her various brood of less-than-intelligent sycophants will endlessly hang. In short: I believe my mother’s version of events.
I am extremely angry. No one speaks to my mother like that. Especially not some pointless and capricious pile of 50-stone Jabba-look-a-like manipulative, repugnant flab. Especially not some brain-dead, spidey, bald fuckstain who is too much of a coward to ever stand up to or move away from his all-controlling mother and who thinks threatening other members of his family is act of maternally-directed heroism. These assholes being the cuntfucks that they are all the while living in the midst of a pathetic paedophile who thinks it’s acceptable to find fun through fucking children.
As I say, my involvement is not direct, but there is nevertheless a difficulty facing me in relation to them in the immediate future. I have to see them all on Friday night. My eldest Maisie-spawned cousin and his wife, who were not involved in the argument at all, are celebrating their 25th wedding anniversary, and I have already confirmed with their daughter, StudentMcF, that A and I would go. My mother had initially said upon leaving Hotel California that she wouldn’t go in light of recent developments, but Sarah (who, to be fair, apologised for her part in the screaming match) pointed out, reasonably enough, that that would hardly be fair to the personnel whose party it is.
To that end, Mum has proposed that she take A and myself, and we just return directly to her house that night, as soon as escape is politely viable, rather than spend the night with any of the assorted McFs, as was initially posited. This is fine by me – except that I will still have to see Maisie, Paedo and Kevin.
Although I couldn’t care less if the family never spoke to me again (for the most part, anyway), I am enraged that they have slandered and upset my mother. She spent most of her phone call to me about this in uncontrollable tears, and didn’t even react particularly when I said that I hoped Maisie died, something that is deeply out of character for her. It is a horrible thing to hear your own mother’s hopeless sobs of despair. It’s a horrible thing to know that you’re her only trusted outlet and beam of support, that everyone else in the world to whom she is close has a vested interest in unfairly disparaging her. It’s a horrible thing to know that these pointless cunts that you’ve gone to great fucking lengths to fucking protect are so unworthy of even pissing on if they’re on fire that they would knowingly and seemingly deliberately hurt someone that loves them as much as my mother does.
So, I am angry in the extreme.
And you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.
It is very much part of Maisie’s nature to be vindictive and bitchy when things aren’t going her way. I fully expect her to sit there on Friday night and make snide little nudge-nudge-wink-wink comments about the heinous being that my mother apparently is to whatever unfortunate sod gets lumbered with sitting near to her and Paedo. And if she does, and I notice it, I swear to God all hell will break loose. I will see red, and I will tell her exactly what I think of her and her insensate, imbecilic offspring and her perverted, child-raping cunt of a husband.
It’s not a good idea to do this, I know. It is, in fact, potentially the most stupid thing I could ever do in my sorry little life. But the rage is so visceral, so deeply-held – I simply don’t know that I can help myself. The sensible thing in many ways would be not to go to the party, but then that looks like a slight on the members of the family who were not party to this fight, and I have no beef with them particularly, other than my (entirely unreasonable) academic snobbery to their intellectual barrenness. Yet simultaneously I don’t want to ruin (like that’s a strong enough word for it) their party by potentially losing it and screaming across the venue that my childhood was spent being raped by Maisie’s husband and by pointing out that they’re all just fucking sheep in her game of desperate oppression and megalomaniacal control-freakery.
The thing is, even if I didn’t go to the party, if I have at some future juncture the misfortune to lay eyes on these cuntflaps, I am quite sure the rage will just lie there dormant until then anyway. If my mother’s intention to permanently avoid Hotel California holds true, I could potentially avoid them until they’re all dead. But then this is a so-called family that we’re talking about, and nothing is ever as straightforward as one would like when it comes to that particular social institution.
Catch-22. A no win situation, really. I shall have to consider my next move carefully, for my anger with the stupid fat bitch and her cunt son could threaten to overwhelm me. For once, though, the cloud has a silver lining. I have something to think about that vaguely involves strategy and planning, as opposed to the perpetual cycle of sad, un-achieving navel-gazing about the termination of therapy or the dull existence of nothingness than I otherwise live.