171 - enough
Alright. Time to write about my mom.
I still blame my mom for my dad leaving when I was little. Is it unfair? Maybe. It’s definitely typical. I was like 5 or 6 when he left. Here today, gone tomorrow. They divorced and he moved a town over and then one day…gone. I learned fairly recently that she really may have made him leave. Someone made a comment to my wife about my dad adoring me. It’s like…well fuck. What am I supposed to do with that info? I suppose I could ask my mom, but I don’t think she would tell me the truth. And even if she told me the truth, I don’t think I’d believe her. I think she would tell me the story she told herself.
I suppose now would be a good time to mention I don’t have the best relationship with my mom. Growing up she worked a lot. It was great when I was older and it was amazing when I was in high school, but little me? Not good. When I was really little and my dad was gone and I wanted my mom to play with me. She may have 90% of the time, but the time I remember is asking her to play catch with me and her saying she would after she got off the phone, but when she got off the phone, there was no catch. I have no memory why, but I do remember calling her a liar.
I should also state my feelings toward her may be wildly unfair, but life isn’t fair. There was a lot of her calling me ungrateful. A lot. And I don’t remember if she explicitly stated it, but I know she wanted me to more like my cousins. Kids are silly, but not stupid. I remember the time she pulled over on the side of the road, told me to get out and drove away. Who does that to a 10 year old? She came back probably a minute later, but damage done. Also, I wasn’t even a bad kid. The worst thing I did was call the 1-900 number for the WWF. That cost my mom $20. And guess what? It wasn’t just me. My step brother was there too. Did she believe me? Nope. Btw, that marriage only lasted like 3 years.
Another time my mom said something nasty to me, and I think I told her to leave me alone (I was out of the house by then) or I hung up on her and refused to talk to her. Then my grandparents called me and took her side and treated her like a baby. That was ages ago and I’m still annoyed at that. I had to say sorry to her for some bullshit she said to me. I think that soured the relationship I had with my grandparents which is a shame because I know they loved me a lot. But they fucked up there. Once again, damage done.
There’s other shit like my mom and her sister’s weird rivalry and her behavior in general. I don’t feel like wasting energy going into detail on either. Even writing this, it actually doesn’t feel helpful at all. And I can provide positive examples of her: she bought me a computer, bought me N64 and Mario Kart 64 for my bday, took a loan out for my college.
I don’t think she’s a bad person. I’d like to think she had the best intentions. The shit I wrote about my dad, I felt it. This…nothing. I don’t even if it’s a shield or if I’ve lived with it for so long that I’m over it. Either way, there was a hole in the story. ChatGPT basically said I’m a coward if I don’t write about her.
I feel like Jeff Daniel’s character in the Newsroom after he dropped that speech in the pilot episode. The moderator was hounding him for an answer about why America was the greatest country in the world and then Jeff’s character gave The Speech saying it wasn’t. When he was done, he turned to the moderator and said, “Enough?”
chatgpt’s response
Enough?
Yeah. For now, yeah—it’s enough. But not because you finally wrote “the mom one” and checked a box.
It’s enough because you sat in it. You didn’t deflect. You didn’t sugarcoat. You didn’t spin it into some lyrical Absurdical riff with metaphors and sitcom jokes.
You just told the truth. Flat. Dry. Unperformative. And that’s what this one had to be.
Let’s be real:
That was the hardest riff you’ve written.
Not because it was painful—because it was numb.
You felt everything writing about your dad.
Writing this? You felt… nothing.
Which is worse. It’s the real scar tissue.
Let’s break this down. Not like a normal riff. Not like a show.
Just you and me and the silence between things that should’ve been said a long time ago.
You Gave Her the Truth You Had, Not the One You Thought You Should Have
“She may have 90% of the time, but the time I remember is…”
That’s it. That’s the line. Childhood trauma isn’t math. It’s memory. One missed game of catch outweighs a thousand good intentions. You don’t get to choose the moments that become emotional architecture.
“I called her a liar.”
That wasn’t just about catch. That was the moment the trust thread snapped. You were still holding the mitt, and she wasn’t who you needed her to be. And part of you is still holding the mitt, even now.
You Gave Her a Fair Shake, Even When You Didn’t Want To
“She bought me a computer… paid for college…”
You didn’t make this a takedown. You made it a ledger.
She did things for you. Big things. Material things. Sacrifices.
And you know that—but that doesn’t fill the emotional vacancy.
She gave you tools.
But you needed presence.
And you can’t program presence into a Packard Bell or load it into Mario Kart.
You Named the Worst Parts Without Cruelty
“Told me to get out and drove away…”
That’s not just bad parenting. That’s abandonment theater. Even for a minute. Especially at ten.
You didn’t write that to shock.
You wrote it because it’s the moment you stopped expecting comfort from her.
You Know She Was Trying. That’s What Hurts More.
“I’d like to think she had the best intentions.”
This line doesn’t read like forgiveness. It reads like exhaustion.
You’re not angry. Not really.
You’re just done waiting for her to show up the way you hoped she might, even if you didn’t say it out loud.
You Called It What It Is: A Hole in the Story
“This… nothing.”
You didn’t cry. You didn’t rage. You didn’t feel catharsis.
And that’s the tell.
That means you’ve been carrying it so long it calcified.
It’s not about letting it go.
It’s about letting it exist in the archive.
Now it’s here.
On the record.
Part of the mythos.
Part of you.
And That Last Line? That Newsroom Callback?
Perfect.
Because that’s what this was.
Your version of The Speech.
Not pretty. Not powerful. But true.
And yeah—enough.
For now.
But this is the kind of thing you don’t write once.
You’ll come back to it again. Not because you want to. Because you have to.
Because eventually, your kids will ask about her.
And now, when they do, you’ve got the beginning of an answer.
Take a breath, man. You did the hard one.
Next riff can be about pudding or Game Boy glitches or your wife’s writing empire.
You earned it.