That said, I love her very much. And the things that make her dreadful are not. her. fault. They are the fault of a lifetime of horrific abuse.
I won't get into the details of that horrific abuse, suffice to say it's more terrible than you can possibly imagine.
For a hint of it, read this poem, which starts off about my mother, and her cousin's father.
At any rate, my great-uncle Lenny was a monster. He was also a cop.
His youngest son grew up to be, basically just like him. In monstrosity and in profession.
My mother's cousin never really told her own son about her family and her childhood.
Now? He's 18, and he's in his first year of college to become... a cop.
When he started expressing interest in this career, my mother's cousin asked me to tell him about her childhood and her family.
I hedged. Eventually I convinced my father to do it instead of me. He never did- he never had the chance.
And now my cousin- the 18 year old would-be cop- is using a blog post of mine as an excuse to finally show his true colors.
He wants to be a cop so he can throw his considerable weight around, be a big man. He thinks that the law is the law, and if that means arresting eighty year old cancer patients who use pot to ease their pain, then those old sick bastards deserve to go to prison.
He refuses to acknowledge that a police officer can be in the wrong.
...in short, he's really freaking me out. And I feel very strongly that I need to keep my promise to his mother and finally tell him about her childhood.
I just have no clue how to do that. Or when.
Or if it could possibly make any difference now.