The Neverending Drain

I derive no satisfaction from interactions with other people. I know that’s on me, and me alone.
I am always very aware that I am deficient as a woman in the eyes of others, and though people never admit it, they judge people like me more harshly for it. It’s a never ending struggle to connect to others, and I never get back what I put in. Oh well, one would say. Certainly you have other people who are always willing to look out for you? To love and support you when you need it? Family maybe?

Haha. Hahahaha. No.

So, I just transferred money to my mother. My loving mother. My needy, dependent mother who can’t properly take care of herself despite being in her early fifties with two degrees and no mental/physical disabilities. She comes over once a week to do laundry since she can’t afford coin facilities. She makes about $1200 a month and that’s under the table. God knows what will happen with the tax people catch up with her eventually. Guess who will deal with that. Hint: Not her.

She thinks I should be glad to see her when she comes by. I’m not. I’m neutral. She’s not a mother to me, she’s a dependent who sucks me of time, energy, and cash.

If she had been a real mother, able to sacrifice, to overcome her fears and self-doubt to actually provide for herself and me, I wouldn’t mind seeing her once a week, or giving her money. Hell, if she had a living wage and friends, I wouldn’t need to see her once a week OR give her money. She’d have things to do, people to see. That being said, I’m all she has and she clings to me like a soft, nice leech.

She needs help. She will always need help. She won’t help herself. I’m it. And I don’t want that role. I want to be her child, not her parent or husband. In a way, I never got to be a child. And yet, I must pay for her always being a child at heart. Always looking for a handout in her meek, pleading voice, unwilling to do what it takes to help herself and hence, help me. She makes me angry. I wish I had a mother. I wish I had a father. I have no one.

Thus I find other people are a constant drain of emotional resources. The only people I like are people that don’t need me.

That is why I used to be particularly close to two friends of my husband. I called them my friends. I knew them for many years. They didn’t need anything from me but laughter and conversation. I thought they knew me, and didn’t judge me. I thought I could be close to them, that I’d found friends who could recharge me instead of drain me. But in the end, they were like everyone else. After many years of friendship, never letting anything show previously, I had a small attack of anxiety before them. The result of insomnia and not knowing some other people who were with us very well.

Despite everything they too took a step away. I became “othered” in their mind. That’s what happens when you slip up, and I should have known better. They still act like they want to be around me, but things have changed. They do not feel the same. I feel the weight of my fackup floating in the air around us. There is a new element to their relationship with me, the detriment of “being worried about NeuroticOne.” Oh good, like I wanted the basis of our friendship to be changed from “we like you and you’re our equal” to “you’re a crazypants we need to keep an eye on.” My fault. Never show the damage. Not even to people you consider good as family.

But there is no such thing as family, not even your friends can be family. You are never as close to people as you presume you are. You are not valued as much as you value others.

And yet I must persist. I must continue to give, when nothing ever comes back. It’s a recipe for madness and it tips the scales more and more in my inner conflict whether being alone is better or not.

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