It’s a bitter pill to swallow, admitting to being a bad son. Growing up in a home echoing with my father’s explosive anger and verbal assaults on my mother certainly cast a long shadow. But as an adult, the responsibility rests squarely on my shoulders. My chance at something resembling peace, at moving forward, hinges on confronting a stark truth: anger, that irrational, destructive force, is merely a symptom, a surface manifestation of something far more deeply rooted and insidious. I can catch myself now, sometimes, pull back from the precipice of certain destructive behaviors. Yet, the underlying rot persists, a silent plague threatening to erupt again.
Before I delve deeper into this self-excavation, let me lay bare the landscape of my anger, its triggers, its forms, and the accompanying baggage that anchors me to this destructive cycle, preventing any real progress.
My anger manifests in specific, terrifying patterns:
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Verbal Abuse Directed at Women: This isn’t a general misanthropy. It’s targeted, laser-focused on the women I’ve been closest to, the women I’ve professed to love: my mother (now deceased) and the two women who were my partners in long-term, deeply committed relationships. The trigger is almost always the same: a perceived betrayal, a crack in the foundation of trust.
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Profound Trust Issues: Trust, especially towards women, feels like a foreign concept, a luxury I can’t afford. This deep-seated mistrust is a fortress of solitude, isolating me from the very connection I crave. Alone, I tell myself, I am safe from lies, safe from the inevitable sting of deception.
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The Nature of the Abuse: It’s a grotesque mimicry of my father’s behavior, amplified and weaponized. It begins with a torrent of vile name-calling, designed to inflict maximum emotional damage. I dredge up the most hurtful words, the phrases that will strip away their self-worth, their sense of beauty, their very essence. I repeat these venomous attacks relentlessly, a verbal barrage fueled by rage. Then, as quickly as it ignites, the anger recedes, leaving behind a wasteland of guilt and remorse. The apologies follow, desperate pleas for forgiveness, a hollow echo of change that never materializes.
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Substance Abuse and Addiction: In my teens, marijuana was a constant companion. While I no longer smoke, I can’t shake the feeling that it warped my perception, amplifying paranoia, solidifying suspicion, and laying fertile ground for anger to take root. Gambling is the ongoing, festering wound. The cycle of fleeting highs and crushing lows, the guilt, the shame of financial ruin, the gnawing feeling of inadequacy – all these feed the beast of anger. Knowing I am incapable, weak, unable to provide even simple comforts for someone I claim to love, boils into resentment, and that resentment is often turned outwards, directed at the very person I’ve hurt. I belittle them to diminish my own crushing sense of failure.
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Bullying – A Murky Past: This is a more nebulous area, requiring deeper introspection. I wasn’t a classic victim, the easy target constantly preyed upon. Yet, there was a pervasive need to be accepted by the “cool” crowd, a desperate yearning for validation that led me down humiliating paths. Name-calling, manipulation, embarrassing situations – these were all part of the price of admission to a group that ultimately offered little real acceptance.
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Debilitating Laziness and Uncleanliness: The root of this is a mystery to me. Cleaning, maintaining a semblance of order in my personal space, feels like an insurmountable task. “Tedious” is a gross understatement. I would rather wallow in filth than expend the minimal effort required to clean. My home has become a sanctuary of squalor, a place I actively hide from family and friends. Ironically, at work, I am meticulous, constantly cleaning and organizing. It’s not an inability to clean, but a conscious, self-destructive choice to live in chaos at home, a physical manifestation of my internal turmoil, a source of deep shame.
I don’t believe I am inherently a bad person. But I am undeniably burdened by a lifetime of unprocessed trauma, a heavy emotional baggage that has warped my behavior, causing me to inflict pain on the people I cherish most.
Thirty-one years ago, I entered this world, born into what, on the surface, appeared to be a good, loving family. I was, by all accounts, a “mama’s boy,” doted on, perhaps even coddled. Aunts and uncles recount stories of my mother’s unwavering devotion, how she anticipated my every need, smoothed every path. As an only child, I was the undisputed center of her universe. She was the embodiment of thoughtfulness, affection, and unwavering honesty. Her circle of friends was vast, a testament to her genuine character and her ability to see beyond superficialities. She was hardworking, independent, punctual – a paragon of virtue.
My father was a stark contrast. A physically imposing figure, tall and intimidating, with deeply entrenched opinions delivered at deafening volume. His worldview was narrow, inflexible. Any deviation from his rigid expectations could trigger a volcanic eruption of anger. He possessed a remarkable, almost uncanny, ability to escalate minor disagreements into full-blown confrontations. He wasn’t without redeeming qualities; he had a sharp, albeit often biting, sense of humor and could be relied upon to lend a hand in practical matters. However, his explosive temper and utter lack of verbal filter, in my opinion, alienated those around him. He was prone to laziness, always finding excuses to avoid work. His ideal day consisted of retreating to the couch with a newspaper and the television remote, in a state of precarious equilibrium, easily disrupted by the slightest “button-pushing” – a skill at which my mother and I inadvertently excelled. I believe my mother was initially drawn to his physical presence, his perceived strength and toughness, which offered a sense of security. She likely saw glimpses of a softer side, a vulnerability that she believed she could nurture, imagining she was getting the best of both worlds.
Much of his simmering rage was directed at my mother and me. Words became weapons: “stupid,” “piece of shit,” “dumb,” delivered with venomous contempt, constantly belittling me, chipping away at my nascent self-esteem. “Why can’t you be smart like your friends?” “You’re a fucking disgrace!” Many nights were spent alone in my room, tears streaming down my face, wrestling with the crushing belief that I was inherently flawed, incapable of doing anything right. Family members now speculate that my father was consumed by jealousy, an irrational resentment of the attention my mother lavished upon me. His treatment of my mother was even more brutal. “Stupid bitch,” “Where were you today? Sucking cock, you fucking whore?” “Worthless bitch.” If she was out, he would sometimes force me to wait with him in the living room, a tense vigil culminating in a public excoriation upon her return, a scene of escalating name-calling conducted at a volume designed to maximize fear and intimidation.
Only now, with the clarity of adulthood, do I truly grasp the profound emotional toll this abuse took on my mother, the insidious damage it inflicted on her mental and, I suspect, physical health.
When I was thirteen, my mother, after years of enduring the intolerable, finally summoned the courage to leave him. This pivotal moment, intended as liberation, registered in my young mind as a profound betrayal. Too young to comprehend the complexities of their toxic dynamic, I sided with my father. He skillfully manipulated the situation, convincing me to stay with him, fostering the narrative that my mother had abandoned us, that I was somehow insignificant to her. My father’s behavior after her departure was erratic and emotionally manipulative. I became his reluctant confidant, forced to navigate his weeping pleas for my mother’s return, his self-pitying lamentations. “Don’t worry, Dad, I’m here, Mom will come back.” Even at that age, I learned to censor myself, to carefully curate my words to avoid triggering his volatile temper, though verbal harassment remained a constant undercurrent.
In the months that followed, I gradually began to spend time with my mother at her new apartment. This period marked a dark turning point in our relationship. I, in a grotesque act of filial mimicry, became my father’s proxy, unleashing the same venomous abuse upon my mother. “Fuck you, bitch, I hope you die!” “Hope you’re proud of leaving us!” “I fucking hate you!” My mother, with saintly patience, attempted to reason with me, to explain her motivations, but her words were lost in the storm of my adolescent rage. Anger was the dominant force, the only language I seemed to understand. She bought a loft downtown, a new beginning, and slowly, I started spending more time there. Simultaneously, my academic life imploded. School became an alien landscape. I failed almost every course, skipped classes with impunity, retreated into a fog of marijuana smoke, spending hours immersed in video games, isolating myself from the outside world, the locked door of my room a physical barrier against reality. This self-destructive spiral further strained my relationship with my mother, yet her patience remained unnervingly steadfast. If she dared to criticize my behavior, to express concern about my self-destruction, I would retaliate with a ferocity that was exponentially greater, aiming to wound her as deeply as possible, reducing her to tears. This was the genesis of the guilt that now haunts me, the pain that lingers like a phantom limb. Moments later, or sometimes hours, the remorse would surface. I would seek her out in her room, often finding her still weeping. Apologies would flow, heartfelt moments of shared grief, tears shed in each other’s arms. But it was a cycle, a vicious, self-perpetuating cycle that would plague us for twelve long years. High school became a blurred landscape of alternating weeks with my father and weekends with my mother. With my father, my world was constricted, confined within the walls of the house, devoid of social interaction. But with my mother, a new world opened. I tasted freedom, the intoxicating possibility of forging my own path, making friends, meeting girls, making my own choices. It was inevitable that I would call my father and declare my intention to live permanently with my mother. It was a fraught, emotionally charged conversation. I vividly recall the terror that gripped me, the fear that at any moment he would descend, a vengeful figure reclaiming his territory. He was, in retrospect, all bark and no bite, prone to impulsive threats uttered without forethought. “I’m going to grab you from school!” The threat, though ultimately empty, was enough to send me into hiding for a weekend at my cousin’s house, paralyzed by fear.
Fast forward to eighteen. I had cultivated a close-knit group of friends, some dating back to elementary school. I was still clinging to the fringes of groups where I didn’t truly belong, still seeking validation in the wrong places, but nonetheless, I was experiencing a semblance of youthful exuberance. Clubs, bars, parties, events – the landscape of young adulthood unfolded before me. And then, I met her. A remarkable girl. The connection was immediate, undeniable. She initiated everything, boldly giving me her number, insisting we go out. In the shallow landscape of my eighteen-year-old mind, my primary motivation was to lose my virginity, which I promptly did. A fleeting conquest, I thought. A brief encounter. I hadn’t planned for a relationship. I knew she had a past, experiences that predated our meeting, but after a few months, we were officially a couple. Initially, everything was idyllic. Until the lie. I possess a capacity for forgiveness, a willingness to see the best in people, but in hindsight, this should have been a breaking point. She claimed to be out with girlfriends. Later, the truth emerged: she had been with other guys, acquaintances, people I knew, but not close friends. Something snapped. I ended it, abruptly, decisively. She wept, pleaded for a second chance. Foolishly, I relented. But the seed of mistrust had been sown. It germinated quickly, poisoning the relationship. Every phone call, every text message, every outing became a source of suspicion. “Who are you texting?” “Where are you going?” “What are you doing?” The insidious mimicry of my father resurfaced, the verbal abuse creeping back into my repertoire. Name-calling, accusations, interrogations. The cycle of pain and remorse repeated itself, escalating in intensity. Tears, apologies, fleeting moments of reconciliation, followed by the inevitable relapse into suspicion and anger. She was close to my mother, and my entire family adored her. They tried to intercede, assuring me of her loyalty, her genuine affection. She pleaded, desperately trying to rebuild the shattered trust. But I was incapable of believing her. For three agonizing years, this toxic dance continued, a push and pull of love and suspicion, until she finally ended it, decisively, irrevocably. I was heartbroken. In a pathetic attempt to win her back, I bombarded her with messages, alternating between desperate pleas and angry, hurtful pronouncements. It took months for the emotional turmoil to subside, for me to return to a semblance of normalcy. To this day, I still think of her, of what could have been, haunted by the guilt of the verbal abuse, the constant accusations, the numerous times I cheated on her, justifying it to myself as some form of retribution for her perceived untrustworthiness, even stooping to the pathetic act of having her friends sleep over at my place on her birthday without her knowledge. But the verbal abuse, the cruelty of my words, remains the most enduring source of shame.
At eighteen, I dropped out of school and began working in construction, specifically abatement work. The money was good, surprisingly so. This also marked the insidious dawn of my gambling addiction. Paycheck to paycheck became my financial reality, every spare dollar funneled into the insatiable maw of addiction. My gambling became a topic of family concern, an open secret, but it held little weight for me. I lived with my mother, always had a roof over my head, food on the table. I briefly attended Gamblers Anonymous, a half-hearted attempt at redemption, but it proved futile. I clearly didn’t engage with the program in any meaningful way, because after meetings, I would simply retreat to the anonymity of the internet and play online poker. Work became increasingly monotonous, joyless. Depression, fueled by gambling losses, settled in like a persistent fog. Days missed from work became more frequent. Multiple leaves of absence followed, unemployment benefits becoming another source of gambling funds.
By twenty-two, the compulsive urge to gamble had, thankfully, lessened. A new chapter began, a period of hedonistic pursuits. Going out more, chasing fleeting romantic encounters, accumulating a collection of superficial memories. Meeting people, forging connections within different social circles – gym buddies, childhood friends, work acquaintances. Girlfriends were transient, fleeting, mostly one-night stands. Get drunk, hook up, goodbye. I consciously avoided deep emotional entanglements, terrified of vulnerability, of exposing the simmering anger within, of risking further heartbreak. The years between twenty-two and twenty-five were a social whirlwind, a blur of superficial connections and fleeting pleasures. The toxic cycle with my mother persisted, however, the unhealthy dynamic unbroken. I retreated into isolation whenever possible, minimizing interaction to avoid triggering conflict, to maintain a fragile peace.
And then, the real darkness descended. The events that unfolded during this period irrevocably altered the trajectory of my life. February 4th, a Monday night. I was heading to the movies with friends, stopped to say goodbye to my mother. She was on the phone with her mother, writhing on the floor in agonizing pain. She had been experiencing intermittent pain leading up to this, but I had never witnessed such intensity. Doctors had dismissed it as gastritis, but my intuition screamed otherwise. “Mom, no way am I going out. Let me take you to the emergency room.” I’ve never confessed this to anyone, save a select few. Weeks prior, in a fit of uncontrolled rage, I had uttered words so vile, so unforgivable, that they now haunt my waking hours. In the heat of a temper tantrum, I had wished aloud that her pain was cancer. I remember the look in her eyes, a mixture of pain and something akin to resignation, as if to say, “You know what, son, while I desperately hope not, I think it might be.” Immediately, remorse washed over me. I apologized profusely, assuring her it was nothing serious, just a fleeting outburst of anger, empty words. In the aftermath of that horrific pronouncement, we actually experienced a period of unexpected closeness. We shared a profoundly beautiful, poignant moment leading up to that fateful February 4th. An ice storm had descended upon the city, encasing everything in a thick, glistening sheet of ice. Trees, branches, the entire landscape transformed into a crystalline wonderland. We spent hours together, marveling at the spectacle, taking pictures of the frozen world. Then, I took pictures of her. Pictures of us together. In the midst of harsh, unforgiving conditions, we found a pocket of pure zen, a shared moment of tranquility. That’s all she ever truly craved, my mother – complete, unadulterated zen.
We arrived at the emergency room. My mother, curled in a fetal position on a chair, desperately trying to find a position that offered a sliver of relief. I pleaded with the staff, begging them to expedite her care, to acknowledge the severity of her pain. Time stretched into an agonizing eternity. Eventually, we were given a tentative diagnosis, a dismissive reassurance that it was likely a non-serious condition, possibly impacted stool, causing the excruciating pain. But they wanted her to return the following day for further tests, a vague unease lingering in their pronouncements.
I spent the entire night in a state of frantic prayer, begging some higher power for her well-being, for a reprieve from the gnawing dread. But nothing was okay. My worst nightmares were about to materialize. “The results show some spots on your liver, and this appears to be cancer.” “You need to come in for a CAT scan, but it does not look good.” The world tilted on its axis. I was unraveling, everything accelerating, a chaotic blur of fear and disbelief, desperately clinging to the hope of a medical error, a chart mix-up. February 6th, Wednesday, my mother returned for the CAT scan. I knew, instinctively, irrevocably, before the words were even spoken.
Before I continue, a brief aside: My relationship with my father, while still strained, had evolved. Age had granted me a measure of assertiveness, a willingness to speak my mind. My mother, ever the peacemaker, ever the saint, recognized my need for a paternal figure, and through her unwavering patience and determination, had managed to cultivate a fragile friendship between us, for my sake. She still cared for him, deeply, but no longer had to endure the daily barrage of his negativity. He, in turn, knew that any outburst, any relapse into his old patterns of abuse, would result in both of us cutting ties. Remarkably, despite the years of emotional and verbal abuse, she never sought financial retribution, never pursued alimony, never harbored bitterness. Money was inconsequential to her. She even went so far as to purchase a burial plot for them both, a testament to her enduring, albeit complex, love, a hope for reconciliation even in death.
It was the evening of the 6th when my immediate family arrived. I made no pretense of stoicism, no attempt to mask my devastation. A twenty-five-year-old man, reduced to a child, sobbing uncontrollably, clinging to my mother as if my embrace alone could ward off the inevitable. The news was delivered with brutal efficiency: “Pancreatic cancer – 3-6 months.” Palliative care, pain management, the only options. I was shattered, adrift in a sea of grief and self-loathing. The weight of my past actions, the years of verbal abuse, the countless moments of selfishness, crashed down upon me. If ever there was a time to atone, to repay my mother for her unwavering love and forgiveness, this was it. I vowed to be her constant companion, her unwavering support. Hospice felt impersonal, isolating. Through a combination of divine grace and the tireless efforts of family doctors, we secured a palliative care team to attend to her at home. My aunt moved in, providing invaluable support. The first week or two were a whirlwind of activity – trips to the bank, meetings with lawyers, all to settle her affairs, to ensure my future security. Her thoughts, even in the face of her own mortality, were solely focused on me. The lawyer and his assistant, hardened professionals, were both moved to tears as my mother and I signed papers amidst our shared weeping. “Everything I’ve ever had is yours,” she whispered, her voice weak but resolute. “You need to be smart.”
Once the legal and financial matters were settled, she began the prescribed pain medication. “Maybe just half a pill, Mom, and see how you feel. I don’t want you dazed and confused. This stuff is strong.” “Okay,” she replied, her voice barely audible. Initially, it seemed to work. A fragile tendril of optimism began to take root. “Maybe half a pill every few hours, and she can live for years… hell, maybe she can even become a candidate for some new procedure by then.” My mother, ever grounded in reality, gently extinguished my nascent hope. “Don’t cling to false hope, son. This is just life.”
My employer, blessedly, was incredibly supportive. They continued to pay me 3/4 of my salary while I stayed home, caring for my mother alongside my aunt and the palliative care team.
It was a profoundly stressful time, saturated with an overwhelming sadness that defies articulation. Yet, amidst the grief, we forged a deeper bond, a connection forged in the crucible of shared mortality. We talked, endlessly, about everything and nothing. I became insatiably curious about her life, her childhood, her formative experiences. She recounted memories of her own upbringing, the trials and tribulations that shaped her into the woman she became. I absorbed every detail, every anecdote, while simultaneously berating myself for this belated surge of interest. Why now? Why hadn’t I shown this level of engagement, this depth of curiosity, when she was healthy, vibrant? Slowly, imperceptibly, my mother began to drift in and out of consciousness. But with concerted effort, with a desperate clinging to connection, we could still elicit moments of lucidity, brief flashes of her former self. One evening, I decided to escape the suffocating atmosphere of grief, to seek temporary solace in the gym, to release some of the crushing tension through physical exertion. When I returned home, an unsettling silence permeated the air. By this point, my mother had expressed a desire to limit visitors to immediate family only. I went to her room, dimly lit, a hushed tableau of sorrow. My aunt, grandmother (her mother), and my father sat vigil, silently watching over her. I looked at my mother, and the image of her in that moment is seared into my memory, an indelible mark of grief. Heavily sedated, staring blankly at the ceiling, jaw slack, cheeks sunken. A wave of agonizing realization washed over me, a visceral understanding of the imminent. My mother was dying. I asked everyone to leave the room, my voice trembling but firm. “Everyone should leave now. I want Mom to get some sleep.” I gently adjusted her blanket, ensuring she was warm, kissed her goodnight, and switched off the lights. Never in my life had I imagined caring for my mother in this way, in her final days. In my self-centered delusion, I had always envisioned her burying me, a consequence of my self-destructive path. I would bring her breakfast, feed her, my aunt administered the prescribed medications, meticulously following the palliative care instructions, and handled most of her personal care. A few times, however, I offered to wash her. These moments are both haunting and strangely sacred, a profound act of filial duty, a final act of love. I knew her fragility, handled her with extreme gentleness, slowly guiding her to the shower, removing her clothing, carefully seating her on the shower bench we had purchased. “I don’t want my hair to get wet,” she murmured, a flicker of her old self, a mundane concern amidst the encroaching darkness. “You have a hot date or something?” I replied, attempting a lightness that felt grotesquely inappropriate, yet somehow necessary. She giggled, a weak, fleeting sound. “Maybe if it’s nice out tomorrow, I can go for a walk?” “Of course, Mom! Anything if you feel up to it.”
Seven weeks had passed since the initial diagnosis. My mother was now largely unresponsive, lost in a medicated haze. Brief moments of speech, but nonsensical, disconnected. Unsurprising, given the cocktail of potent painkillers – morphine, hydrocodone, a pharmacopoeia of unpronounceable drugs. I asked the nurse, my voice laced with fear, “Why do I see her trying to get out of bed in the middle of the night?” I had stayed with her all night, wanting to be close, initially thinking she needed to use the bathroom. But she would simply wander aimlessly, lost in a twilight world. The nurse’s words were gentle but devastating. “This is close to the end, my dear. It’s partly the drugs, but it’s also an indication that she will pass soon.”
March 23rd. Nine PM. A commotion crackled through the intercom we had set up to monitor her room. My father and grandmother were with Mom, while my aunt and I were resting downstairs. My aunt, a pillar of strength throughout this ordeal, my gratitude towards her immeasurable. We rushed upstairs. Mom was gasping for air, each breath a ragged struggle. I took her hand, looked into her fading eyes, tears streaming down my face, repeating, over and over, how much I loved her, begging her to let go, assuring her she would be okay, just let go. And then, she did.
In the immediate aftermath of her death, the tears abruptly ceased. I called family, they arrived quickly. Some of my friends came too, along with close friends of my mother’s. The initial outpouring of grief subsided, only to resurface with a vengeance after the funeral. One final, uncontrollable outburst occurred during the priest’s eulogy, when he recounted my mother’s wish to have it known how deeply she loved her son, and the family’s desire to acknowledge my unwavering dedication in caring for her until her final breath.
After the funeral, after the practicalities were dealt with, I returned home. This is when the true weight of grief descended, crushing, suffocating. Crying myself to sleep every night became the norm. Company offered fleeting moments of respite, allowing me to vent some of the pent-up sorrow, to momentarily exhaust the grief that consumed me. But it was all so surreal, detached from reality, feeling like a prolonged, agonizing dream.
Five years have passed, an expanse of time that has brought no solace, no healing. Intense guilt and grief remain my constant companions. I cling to the house, a physical manifestation of my grief, a financial burden I can ill afford, living paycheck to paycheck, seeking fleeting escapes in gambling, harder drugs, a desperate attempt to numb the pain, while bills pile up, neglected. Another disastrous relationship mirrored the first, a painful repetition of destructive patterns. The anger, I had foolishly hoped, might have been extinguished by the profound loss of my mother, but it remained, a dormant volcano, erupting again with devastating consequences. Debt accumulated. I hold down a stressful, demanding job, managing a warehouse for a construction company, a constant source of pressure. The house is a disaster zone, a physical reflection of my internal chaos. My mother’s room remains untouched, a macabre shrine, everything preserved exactly as it was in her final days. The medical waste basket still stands in the corner, a grim monument to her suffering, the bucket overflowing with expired vials of morphine and other medications. It’s profoundly unhealthy, a constant, visceral reminder of loss. She would have wanted me to sell the house, to start anew, to build a better life, to find a loving partner, to become the man she always believed I could be. My family pleads with me to move on, to let go of the past, but I am too stubborn, too mired in guilt. How could I sell this place, this house I should have been helping her maintain while she was alive? Maybe, just maybe, if I had made her life less stressful, she would still be here, with me. I miss her with an intensity that is physically painful. I can never truly atone for the hurtful words, the selfish actions, even though I know, deep down, she understood, she forgave, she only ever wanted me to be a good person. I can’t, or perhaps won’t, allow myself to move on. I appreciate, with a clarity sharpened by grief, everything she did for me, now acutely aware of the immense labor involved in managing a home, a life. My physical health is deteriorating. I’m alarmingly thin, my diet abysmal, a fact that even acquaintances have begun to notice, a source of deep embarrassment. I confided in my cousin, a bleak pronouncement delivered with a chilling lack of emotion: I don’t think I’ll live to see thirty-five, but at least the mortgage will be paid off by then.
I know this confession is lengthy, a sprawling, unstructured narrative. I doubt anyone will read it in its entirety. But I am desperate. I need help, but I am paralyzed, unsure where to begin, what to do. The tunnel stretches before me, seemingly endless, devoid of light. I feel trapped, destined to die alone, sad, miserable. And that, more than anything, is not what I want.
Love you, Mom, forever. I’m so sorry.
