I wish I were like my mom. Her life is dull, She hates her body, She does not love her kids, Her husband makes her puke, She did not become rich Despite wanting it so badly. But the secret is she has no idea she is unhappy. She is mostly nice, passive-aggressive sweet, she’ll help you, she likes to be thanked.

If you don’t need help, bad for you, she’ll arrange something special, so you’ll need it soon. And here she comes, a mothering figure. I wonder how she did not develop Munchausen by proxy. But no, she has her own delusional cocktail, so strong, that nobody could drink it. In movies, psychopaths are smart, logical, rational—she is none of those things. Her masterpieces of manipulation are intuitive, even dumb once you crack the pattern. She has no idea what she is doing, her understanding of humans is limited to spotting weaknesses, but she is the best at it. When we left her for good, she did not bother; she finds victims easily—young nurse at work, poor relative. She loves the troubled, she’ll listen to your problems patiently, she’ll of course help you, no doubt.

I wish I had her ability to disappear into my delusions, to sink my low self-esteem, my empathy, every other feeling I have. I wish I could just bury them as deep as she can.

But I did not inherit her superpowers, for every minute of dissociation and delusion, I pay. The payment punches me; I go into debt. I lie down on the tiles, texting: "I am ok, just sad, no, hon, idk why, no, I am not planning anything." I know why.

A noble gas should be named after her. She was named after gold, but even gold is too reactive in contrast to her. For years I was sure that even fear and grief couldn’t ruin her armor. But once I saw her crying— she thought her car was stolen. I stood and watched in disbelief. The car was not stolen after all, she just forgot she parked it somewhere else. After 5 minutes, the only genuine feeling I witnessed passed. Please, steal my mom’s car while I put her in an MRI machine.

Лена Гимпель