excuses

The Mother of excuses

My entire left I felt bad for my Mom; she always made it sound like she was the victim of the (whatever) situation she was in. Whether it was because she didn’t have any money, had problems at work or something else. I, as a very sensitive and observing child, felt bad and guilty. I wanted to help her and it saddened me she was miserable.

Sometimes when I wanted to play dress up, she let me try on her “skinny” clothes (the ones she couldn’t fit in anymore). Every time she looked at the smaller jeans or M-size sweater, her face turned into a regretful facade, and she almost whispered a new promise of trying to lose weight again. Even if just a couple of pounds! I gladly backed her up, and hoped that this time she meant it.

Fast-forward to yesterday, she messaged me on Facebook that she is going to the gym. “Is that the gym where you lay on your back and you have the machine massage your fat?” I had to ask. She joined that scam fitness a few years ago. Obviously, it didn’t do anything for her but provided her with an excuse that she was “trying.”

Twenty made-up facts later, she was determined that she is “too fat” to go on a running machine and can’t possibly run. I wanted to send her the video of The Biggest Loser or something like that. But I didn’t. I decided I was done. Done trying to help her. Done trying to support her. Since I have known her, she has every excuse not to lose weight. She won’t accept other people’s help. She won’t listen to anyone but herself and the lies she makes up in her head. I won’t listen to her stories about bad investments she has made and lost money. I won’t listen to her complaints about how everything is wrong at work and she can’t do anything about it. I’m done. DONE.

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