MY MOTHER IS A PIECE OF SHIT

Women wondering whether they’ve found Mr. Right are often told, “If you want to see how a man is going to treat you, look at how he treats his mother.” I’ll confirm that.

I hate my mother more than any other human on Earth.

This article is about my own personal taboo—the one subject I shy away from. The one aspect of my life I skirt over. I avoid discussing it with the more unimportant people in my life. So, with coworkers, or even women I’ve banged off Tumblr, I just say that my parents are dead and then quickly move on. It’s sometimes easier for people to hear and accept that your parents are dead rather than to hear the truth.

Yes, my father is dead (and I wrote something about him back in 2016 here).

My mother, on the other hand, is still alive. The rest of this article will be about Suzanne Caprio (née Clark), born August 25, 1956 in Glen Ridge, NJ. Making it very clear here who I’m talking about.

From what I understand my family tree on her side is full of artists and drug addicts. My grandfather, James Clark, would allegedly terrorize his wife and kids with violence. He had an intimidating Irish physique. I only met him a few times as a very little boy, but he was never a part of my life. From the little I remember my mom telling me he seemed like a real peach. My mom was the youngest of three and in 1970 discovered the euphoric joys of heroin at an early age.

I theorize that my mother’s brain stopped maturing at the age of 14—heroin froze it in place, encapsulating her as useless retard.

When my dad was dying he told me that hooking up with my mom in 1983 was the “lowest point” in his life. I guess that makes me the side effect of such a low point. I tried to alleviate the mood by telling him, “At least she was good looking back then.”

Life under the swatter…

My parents divorced around 1996, after years of fighting between everyone in the family. My father was a cold man. And my mother was manipulative. She effectively brainwashed me into hating my father and conditioned me into being a pussy with no self-esteem and a general fear of everything. Life with her and no dad wouldn’t fully reveal its effects to me until later in life. My mom would use men, get high and teach us to NEVER take responsibility for our actions. She taught me to steal and to view the rich as my enemy.

Basically she raised me to be a good liberal.

Plus, as written in this piece, she kept me in line psychologically with treatment strategies involving therapy and heavy medication.

Without my dad to keep her in check, and despite having two kids to look after, she self-indulged more and more.  Finding syringes was common. Finding her passed out on floors around the house was common. Having her go missing for a few days was common. Watching her use sex to get what she wanted from dimwitted men was especially common. My dad would begrudgingly pay child support and that money would go into my mother’s arm. Not having food in the house was something I simply got used to.

At the age of 17 I’d had enough of her shit and attempted to make amends with my old man. I’d like to say this was driven by my self-realizations, but in reality my mom was about to lose yet another apartment for not paying rent. (One such incident involved us having to pack our things and hide them because the town was inspecting our illegal basement apartment.) My mom was going to move to Honesdale, PA and take my little brother with her. I wasn’t going to that hellhole. I was months from graduating high school and I was dating someone (someone I’d end up dating for 7 years). Once out of the control of my mom, I very SLOWLY started undoing some of the damage she had created.

Around the time I was 20, I tried to have a relationship again with my mother. But that ended when she kidnapped my little brother and filed a false report on my dad and had him arrested. If you’re a woman, that’s VERY easy to do. A certain author comes to mind when I think of my mom and dad and this bogus arrest—this very author’s collection of his old magazine is also what’s inspiring this piece.

That did it for me.

My dad and I had bad relationship most of my life and it wasn’t until 5 weeks before he died that we made our peace. I now look at my dad with a lot of respect and admiration, and I fully blame my cunt of a mother for ruining my relationship with him. Robert wasn’t the bad guy, Suzanne was. When at 61, my dad kicked the bucket, my mother (whom I hadn’t spoken to in close to 9 years) came back out of the woodwork to shake down my brother and I for inheritance money. There wasn’t any. If anything I was lucky to have not inherited his DEBT.

My mother has an annoying habit of popping up like a case of herpes on my various social media platforms. When I made my Twitter page in 2016 I got blasted with tweets from my mom where she was also messaging my followers. Here’s an exchange between me and my friend who is a well-known singer-songwriter:

She also messaged John Stossel. We all know that him and his mustache have other things to worry about.

The last two times I saw her in person were around 2014 while still living in Montclair. One time I suddenly saw her walking toward me on the sidewalk. It was like seeing a monster. She looked like shit, like a fat zombie. (The photo above from the mid-90s is a sad reminder of how she let herself go.) I kept my headphones on and told her to walk into traffic. I speed-walked home while constantly looking over my shoulder. Last thing I wanted was for her to know where I lived. She’s a leech, I’m not a son to her. I would be a meal ticket and a couch for her to sleep on. Someone she could guilt into pitying her and taking care of her. Her other options are petty crimes…


(source)

The last time I saw her was when my then-girlfriend visited from LA and my mom ran into us walking down the street together. She freaked the fuck out of my girlfriend. And being the total sweetheart that Amanda “Sugar” Jones was, we ended up getting into a huge fight.

Wrapping this up, I started this piece with that cliché about men treating women the way they treat their moms. Once I’m crossed, you become a non-person in my eyes. You cease to exist. I don’t care if you’re my mother, a girlfriend or my best friend—once I feel you’ve sold me out or gone out of your way to hurt me, you’re forever X’d.

 

Follow Alex on Twitter @AlexClarkCaprio


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Written by Alex Caprio

Alex Caprio

New Jersey, former musician and stand up comedian with a degree in English. He can also make a better eggplant parm than your Grandma. Follow him on Twitter @alexclarkcaprio.

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