I am 52 years old, and I can't honestly remember when I last experienced genuine feelings of affection for Mother. Probably I once did have such feelings, in the uncritical way of small toddlers, but throughout later life I've scarcely been able to regard her as anything other than an insufferable irritant. The greatest problem I have, while discussing her, is in trying to keep a check on my emotions and not descending into downright obscene insult. Almost every day, alone and in private, I do in fact subject her to a prolonged orgy of verbal abuse. Frequently my hatred and resent bubbles up in public - I will find myself attracting odd looks on a bus, for example, by furiously muttering to myself or writhing about in my seat, internally raging at her very existence. I fantasise about hurling the most hatefully wounding accusations and judgements at her, and dwell morosely on the most poisonous criticism she ever made of me: "You're just like your father; you're just like your father!" Such vengeful reveries generally climax with me screaming these very words insanely in her ear, so she just keels over and dies from the sudden shock of it. Ah, the most wonderfully poetic kind of justice!
Is it normal to hate your mother?
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I am 52 years old, and I can't honestly remember when I last experienced genuine feelings of affection for Mother. Probably I once did have such feelings, in the uncritical way of small toddlers, but throughout later life I've scarcely been able to regard her as anything other than an insufferable irritant. The greatest problem I have, while discussing her, is in trying to keep a check on my emotions and not descending into downright obscene insult. Almost every day, alone and in private, I do in fact subject her to a prolonged orgy of verbal abuse. Frequently my hatred and resent bubbles up in public - I will find myself attracting odd looks on a bus, for example, by furiously muttering to myself or writhing about in my seat, internally raging at her very existence. I fantasise about hurling the most hatefully wounding accusations and judgements at her, and dwell morosely on the most poisonous criticism she ever made of me: "You're just like your father; you're just like your father!" Such vengeful reveries generally climax with me screaming these very words insanely in her ear, so she just keels over and dies from the sudden shock of it. Ah, the most wonderfully poetic kind of justice!