The Booby Prize

But Mom isn't about to go to that dark, reflective, contemplative place in her soul and question how she might be culpable in some way. No, she would prefer to lash out and go on the attack so that you might be frightened off and not push her there, where surely her demons will come out to greet her.

Joe is spared this humiliating little song and dance because he is witless and is running with his tail between his legs before the first jab.

I am spared because it is hard to fight with someone who is not speaking with you and who will return your letters unopened if you dare send one. And if I should be caught flat footed and be tricked into phone conversation, the words "Shut up!" roll easily off my tongue and I reflexively disconnect the phone.

And that leaves Charlotte. She gets all three shares. Undisputed. Uncensored. Both barrels.

And that crap has to stop.

I encourage Charlotte to stop putting herself in harm's way.  I've found it liberating. And I don't miss the haranguing.

Charlotte feels badly. She wants to stay in touch with Mom. She won't be around forever.  (Yes she will. The wicked ones live forever.) Mom is dealing with a lot of crap, we've learned, and she wants to be there for her. But being there for leaves her feeling like she she's been beaten about the head and torso with a piece of garden hose.

Charlotte says she was just thinking about Mom and picked up the phone to call her. Good intentions. No agenda. Just hello. And look where it got her.

I suggested that when she feels like calling to check in, write her a note. Buy some note cards or stationary and send her a few lines letting her know she's on her mind. Safe. One sided. Delayed. Most importantly, within her control.

Charlotte is crying again. She can't believe how such a simple conversation turned into something so awful. Mom was so vicious and mean.

Time for the truth. I ask Charlotte to consider Mom's behavior in the context of alcoholism.