my mother was abused as a child, the extent of which we did not know until she was in the last stages of lewy-body dementia and begging my father—the only person she still recognized, including me—not to "trick" her the way her own father and brother did. she was bound to a wheelchair for several years. then she became bed-bound. my father fed her, bathed her, emptied her ostomy bag, sat with her when she was awake so she wouldn't be scared. she yelled at me when my father wasn't in the room, because she didn't know who i was, and she was terrified i was going to hurt her. she called me a liar when i told her i was her child.
less than a month after we made the decision to move her into a care home, she died.
to say that a dependent, disabled partner is abusing their caretaker simply by showing symptoms of their disability—simply by being disabled—is to say that my mother was abusing my father, that every time she screamed for him because she was afraid of me was an act of abuse. it paints my parents' relationship as that of a victim and his abuser, rather than a sick woman and the man who loved her. it suggests that, upon hearing her diagnosis six years before her death, my father should have left her—for his own mental health, you see.
that was one of the things she was afraid of. when i was in high school and we didn't know what was wrong, we just knew that something was wrong, she told me once that my father had threatened to leave her if she was diagnosed with alzheimer's. (this was a delusion.) she was terrified that, if my father found out he would have to care for her, he would abandon her. she was a housewife, already sick with something we hadn't identified, and didn't speak to her family for reasons that are now obvious. if my father had left her, she would have had nobody but her seventeen-year-old child.
instead, he became her caretaker. yes, it took a toll on him. yes, he tried to find other caretakers. but as she deteriorated, unable to recognize or trust anyone but him, he had to shoulder the burden of caring for her.
my father loved her more than anything. she was his one and only. it took five years for him to finally inter her ashes and take off his ring. the hall closet is still full of her clothes, the den still full of her books and belongings. his grief, always lurking, comes out in sudden silent tears when we talk about our memories of her. we cling to each other in the kitchen to weather these small storms together.
to call my father a victim of my mother's abuse is to invalidate every ounce of love he had for her.
my mother had dementia. she also had anxiety and depression, both of which she passed on to me (as well as her fucked-up feet and knees, but i'm nowhere near as tall as she was. real selective genetics there, mom). she was harmed emotionally and physically as a young girl and struggled with alcoholism when i was in middle school. she was certainly, by the end of her life, severely disabled and dependent on my father.
what she was not was evil. she was a woman who needed help—more help than the average person, and certainly more help as time went on. it wasn't what my father expected when he married her. it wasn't what either of them deserved. but he did it because he loved her, and loves her still.
i was the one to encourage him to find a specialized care home for her. when he couldn't leave her side, the house started falling apart. the constant care took a toll on him. he was exhausted, he was depressed. his wife was gone and he was left consoling her ghost. and i think he loved her enough to keep going if i hadn't told him he should care for himself, too.
i still think about that sometimes. the idea of her staying in her motorized single bed with the safety rails, across the room from the one they used to share. how long he might have kept going, sitting up to sleep so if she called out in the night he could be there at once.
she died in april of 2020, the day before her birthday. she would have been 67. it was less than a month after she had been moved into the care home, crying for my father the whole time because she didn't understand what was happening. terrified of all these strangers. scared and alone.
i still think about that sometimes.
my mother was disabled. my father was her caretaker. he experienced caretaker burnout. all of this is true.
but to say that this was a dynamic of abuse is to villainize a woman who spent the last year of her life in constant fear and confusion. it is to say that my father was a victim rather than a dedicated man who loved his wife. to say that disabled people abuse their partners when they need care is to make a fucking sick joke of my parents and the love they had.
to require care is not evil. it is not an act of abuse. it makes you vulnerable. (i wonder if That Author knows about disability abuse statistics?)
it makes you brave when you ask for that care.
my mother was disabled, and yes, my father was her caretaker. he spent the first six years of his retirement taking care of her, bathing her, changing her adult diaper and emptying her ostomy bag while she grew more and more demanding and erratic. and i think if you told him he was the victim here, he would laugh in your face.
whats with people and these long think-pieces about how they can only see the situation through your own experiences instead of what was described?
the thing is: nobody is saying "being disabled makes you abusive". they said "breaking down everytime someone tries to deny you sex or talk to you seriously is toxic asf and that person deserves to leave". if you are like that puppygirl, you don't neee a partner, you need to work on yourself and a caregiver.
my mother was abused as a child, the extent of which we did not know until she was in the last stages of lewy-body dementia and begging my father—the only person she still recognized, including me—not to "trick" her the way her own father and brother did. she was bound to a wheelchair for several years. then she became bed-bound. my father fed her, bathed her, emptied her ostomy bag, sat with her when she was awake so she wouldn't be scared. she yelled at me when my father wasn't in the room, because she didn't know who i was, and she was terrified i was going to hurt her. she called me a liar when i told her i was her child.
less than a month after we made the decision to move her into a care home, she died.
to say that a dependent, disabled partner is abusing their caretaker simply by showing symptoms of their disability—simply by being disabled—is to say that my mother was abusing my father, that every time she screamed for him because she was afraid of me was an act of abuse. it paints my parents' relationship as that of a victim and his abuser, rather than a sick woman and the man who loved her. it suggests that, upon hearing her diagnosis six years before her death, my father should have left her—for his own mental health, you see.
that was one of the things she was afraid of. when i was in high school and we didn't know what was wrong, we just knew that something was wrong, she told me once that my father had threatened to leave her if she was diagnosed with alzheimer's. (this was a delusion.) she was terrified that, if my father found out he would have to care for her, he would abandon her. she was a housewife, already sick with something we hadn't identified, and didn't speak to her family for reasons that are now obvious. if my father had left her, she would have had nobody but her seventeen-year-old child.
instead, he became her caretaker. yes, it took a toll on him. yes, he tried to find other caretakers. but as she deteriorated, unable to recognize or trust anyone but him, he had to shoulder the burden of caring for her.
my father loved her more than anything. she was his one and only. it took five years for him to finally inter her ashes and take off his ring. the hall closet is still full of her clothes, the den still full of her books and belongings. his grief, always lurking, comes out in sudden silent tears when we talk about our memories of her. we cling to each other in the kitchen to weather these small storms together.
to call my father a victim of my mother's abuse is to invalidate every ounce of love he had for her.
my mother had dementia. she also had anxiety and depression, both of which she passed on to me (as well as her fucked-up feet and knees, but i'm nowhere near as tall as she was. real selective genetics there, mom). she was harmed emotionally and physically as a young girl and struggled with alcoholism when i was in middle school. she was certainly, by the end of her life, severely disabled and dependent on my father.
what she was not was evil. she was a woman who needed help—more help than the average person, and certainly more help as time went on. it wasn't what my father expected when he married her. it wasn't what either of them deserved. but he did it because he loved her, and loves her still.
i was the one to encourage him to find a specialized care home for her. when he couldn't leave her side, the house started falling apart. the constant care took a toll on him. he was exhausted, he was depressed. his wife was gone and he was left consoling her ghost. and i think he loved her enough to keep going if i hadn't told him he should care for himself, too.
i still think about that sometimes. the idea of her staying in her motorized single bed with the safety rails, across the room from the one they used to share. how long he might have kept going, sitting up to sleep so if she called out in the night he could be there at once.
she died in april of 2020, the day before her birthday. she would have been 67. it was less than a month after she had been moved into the care home, crying for my father the whole time because she didn't understand what was happening. terrified of all these strangers. scared and alone.
i still think about that sometimes.
my mother was disabled. my father was her caretaker. he experienced caretaker burnout. all of this is true.
but to say that this was a dynamic of abuse is to villainize a woman who spent the last year of her life in constant fear and confusion. it is to say that my father was a victim rather than a dedicated man who loved his wife. to say that disabled people abuse their partners when they need care is to make a fucking sick joke of my parents and the love they had.
to require care is not evil. it is not an act of abuse. it makes you vulnerable. (i wonder if That Author knows about disability abuse statistics?)
it makes you brave when you ask for that care.
my mother was disabled, and yes, my father was her caretaker. he spent the first six years of his retirement taking care of her, bathing her, changing her adult diaper and emptying her ostomy bag while she grew more and more demanding and erratic. and i think if you told him he was the victim here, he would laugh in your face.
i bring a sort of "the institution of monogamy is inextricably tied to mens' paternity anxieties and desire to control womens' bodies" vibes to poly discourse that reactionaries dont really like
sometimes i be saying im gonna go to bed and then i dont go to bed. frequently in fact. this is because i have the heart of an optimist and the soul of a liar
the term “feminine hygiene” being used so universally in stores makes me incredibly sad and it shocks me that more people don’t find it frustrating. why can’t we just say menstrual products??? it’s more straightforward! what does “feminine hygiene” even mean??? “menstrual products” doesn’t imply that menstruation is “unhygienic”, it doesn’t imply that you have to be “feminine” to need them… it’s a better term in every way. so WHY is “feminine hygiene” the one companies are obsessed with using!! fuck!
the term “feminine hygiene” stems from a time when menstrual products and similar were classed as illegal, “obscene” products in the US. why are we still using a term invented in 1873. I should not be seeing this term in every supermarket I enter. I’m going to turn evil
this post is for transgender people. I don’t want anyone nasty about people like me touching this post please. if you’re trans exclusionary you can block me and go on with your life. if you’re trans I’m giving you a juicy piece of fruit and I love you
dailybridgerton
yousharknotpass
titsay
ellievsbear
