itswalky:I don’t talk to my mom anymore. Whenever we had a difference of opinion, on, like, say, wh
itswalky:I don’t talk to my mom anymore. Whenever we had a difference of opinion, on, like, say, whether homosexuality is basically the same as pedophilia, and I would refute her terrible arguments she’s regurgitating from some bigoted asshole and/or news network, to recoup her losses and try to regain an emotional toehold she would routinely end up begging, “david, I would die for you, you know that, I would die for you.” It is, in fact, one of the last things I saw her saying to me before I took her off my Facebook several months ago. (Only once did our arguments end differently. In the wake of Ferguson, suddenly she was very happy with me hypothetically dying without her intervention, because in this circumstance I would know better, just like Michael Brown should have, who deserved it for doing whatever he clearly must have done. She would accept my fate for being untowardly, like Ferguson’s community should have. No motherly martyrdom here!) Anyway, tonight’s strip, the second one above, writing it made me cry. Talking to my mother always begins with what you’d expect, what you’d want, what you crave as a child, and for those few seconds of “sweeties” and maternal concern all wounds are healed. Everything’s fine. Up until the emotional blackmail begins, you very happily forgive all the previous instances of emotional blackmail. But then it starts, and there’s that moment where you realize that, no, this is actually awful. You realize that you as a person don’t matter against the fabricated reality that she’s built her worldview out of. Her hateful ideas are way stronger than her concern for you. Heaven and Hell, Sin and Salvation, those are the foundation of everything, and everything else does not compute. This is terrible. And you remember everything’s broken and this is a comfort you’ve already learned you are not allowed. The strip depicts the arc of every conversation I’ve had with her, from worrying about beginning an interaction because of history, to it beginning and the scabs shedding and thinking oh it’ll be cool this time, to the wounds being renewed. For Joyce, though, this is her first time. :/ -- source link