My Maternal Line Is Full of Assholes.
I’ve decided that I hate my parents. And my mother’s family.
I was abandoned by my mother when I was a week old. Who fucking does that? Abandon their own baby and just walk right out? Oh wait. Yeah. My fucking father. What a piece of work. My father was in the Navy. He left me with his mother, my grandmother, who would raise me until her death back in 2007. My father is now serving life in prison for sexual abuse. Not of me. Thank my gods for that. I’d like to think Frigga was in part responsible for putting me in safe hands. But the fact remains that my father is a rapist shitlord.
But my mother’s family? By far, the worst.
My father’s family was content to visit every now and then, have me visit my great-grandmother, even my aunt Becky would visit every now and then when I was younger. But after the adoption went through, everything stopped. No letters. No phone calls. No more visits. They dropped any and all forms of communication just like that. Like I never existed. Like I was just some prize they were hoping to win, and when they lost they just ragequit and forgot that there was a little girl across the country who was still asking when she could see her great-grandmother. When Aunt Becky was coming to visit.
They never got in contact with me again. And if anyone from that family is currently reading this:
YOU KNEW EXACTLY WHERE I WAS FOR OVER TWENTY GODDAMN YEARS AND NOT ONCE DID YOU CALL OR WRITE AFTER THAT ADOPTION. EVER. GET OVER YOUR FUCKING BUTTHURT.
The only thing I have ever received from the family of Sheila Louise Robertson, alumnus of Ohio State University, is abandonment issues, crippling anxiety, and a pathological fear of being left alone. All alone. With no one who cared. No one to be there when life got hard. Because of you, I have bouts of being convinced that everyone around me secretly hates me and wants to replace me with someone else.
I don’t even know how many of you are still alive. I don’t even know if my mother Sheila is still alive. But you know what? I’m turning 29 next month. The least I want is a goddamn fucking apology for how shitty you people have been for the last twenty years. I’d like to think I’m owed at least that.
But this therapeutic fuck-you fest is staying.
