Guest Blogger – The Devil’s in the DNA: Chapter One – The Lunatic Womb

When you are trying to have a child, at least in my case, floods of family memories consume you until you feel like you might drown under the crush of it all. Because not only will you be responsible for keeping this little one alive, you are also responsible for the genes you give it. We all hope to give our best genes, but that never seems to work out the way we’d like for it to. I happen to shudder at the thought of giving a precious little one even a dollop of my DNA. I’m kind of secretly hoping that we’ll find out my eggs are too busy at the casino chugging free drinks and smoking cigars and we’ll have to get donor eggs.

In my previous post, I mentioned “the devil in my DNA.” Now, I’m not talking about male-pattern baldness, diabetes, or a penchant for snogging sheep. I’m talking crazy people and alcoholics. Crazy people on my mom’s side. Drunks on my dad’s. Allow me to fill you in on all of my parent’s faults so that it might make my excuses so much more poignant when I make them. And I WILL make them. Many times.

Let’s start with my mom, shall we? My mom never stood a chance. Honestly. There wasn’t a way in hell with the cards she was dealt when she was shat out of her lunatic mother’s womb that she was ever going to be a normal person. My mother lived in a renovated chicken coop until she was three. Her mother (as far as I can tell) has Bipolar disorder of the most heinous type. My mother’s father was a piece of crap and was never there. He was a salesman, or some such rot, and he spent the money he made on hookers and strippers. There were four children. My mother was the youngest. There were two sisters and one brother. The brother was a hermaphrodite. I’m crapping you negative. What they didn’t know back in those days was that children who are hermaphroditic are actually female gendered. They are sterile, but the hormones and whatnot create a female person. Sometimes there are ovaries. Sometimes a uterus. It’s a crapshoot. Back then they let you “choose” what sex you would like your baby to be. Notice I said “sex” not “gender.” Since her family was so poor basically what they did to this innocent child was leave what was on the inside and did some cosmetics to create “testicles” and left a penis that would never function. Last record of him he was in a mental institution after being horribly abused by his adopted family and going full out balls to the wall over the rainbow. Oldest sister is a Wiccan who wears really huge hats, 2 or 3 outfits at a time, and has braids down to her ass which she crisscrosses across her pendulous bosom and ties behind her back. Other sister is a hypochondriac like my mom, wants to have her leg voluntarily amputated, has a dozen or so cats, and has narcolepsy. Yes. Narcolepsy. At least that’s what she calls it. I think she just wants an excuse to pour buckets of water on her husband while he sleeps. So, the adoption. My mother’s mother finally lost her mind. She tried to kill her kids. She put them all in the area they used as a kitchen, sealed it as best she could, turned on the stove, and blew out the pilot. Just like Sylvia Plath. Isn’t that nice? The farmer saw her outside the coop screaming and wailing, pulling at her clothes and hair. She went to the state asylum; the children went to an orphanage. More on the crazy maternal grandmother later. I’m not finished with her level of crazy yet.

This is where the story should get better. It does get better, but still remains craptastic in its own sad way. At three, a couple that had two boys adopted my mother and one of her narcoleptic sister. A successful family. Plenty of food, a nice, warm home. A good Christian family who took yearly trips to state parks and sang hymns in the living room while daddy dearest played on the organ. My mother’s new mother however, came to find out, had let her spirit die. Have you ever known someone like that? It’s like watching a zombie that doesn’t rot. You know that something is wrong, but you just can’t place your finger on it. Before she was married to my mom’s new dad, she was a beautiful, vibrant, sensual woman who sought out adventures and did many things that back in her time were thought to be too risky or even too risqué for a proper lady to do. I have no earthly idea why she would marry a man like…him. He killed her. I truly believe he did. She died a little every day. And I think that because she was always in a state of death and dying, she developed full-blown hypocondriasis. I cannot remember a time when I DIDN’T hear that grandma was dying. Or, this may be the last {insert occasion here} that we have with grandma. She never really had anything. I’m serious. She never had cancer, diabetes, blood pressure problems, heart attacks, lung problems…nothing. Yet she was very frail and always sick. She had an entire drawer in her dresser that was devoted to her prescriptions. I used to ransack it for pain meds and tranqs when I was a teenager. It was awesome. I was like Santa at my high school if we visited over Christmas break. Anyway, my grandma…over time she got smaller and smaller, weaker and weaker. She simply gave up. She was dying for all of the years that I knew her. And if you knew her husband…let’s call him…Charles, you would know why. But you have to say it like Magnito says it in the X-Men movies. Dripping with contempt and a little fear.


What a piece of shit this man is. I say “is” because the bastard is still alive. He’s almost 100 fucking years old and he is so goddamned stubborn he will…not…die. There’s a running joke in my family about that (I started it, yes. That side of the family has no humor). The reason why he is still here is because neither God nor Satan wants him. Any part of him. He’s too much of a douche-bag for Heaven, and Satan refuses to put up with his shit. So they are using the powers of Heaven and Hell to keep him here. Right here. For-Fucking-Ever. This man tortured his family in so many ways. Nothing was ever good enough. Ever. The only person he loved in his life (if you would call it love) was his wife. And he killed her by sucking out her spirit like a five-foot nosferatu until there was nothing left but sagging skin and jutting, brittle, cold bone. He didn’t like to share her with his children. So she doted on him and only him. Nothing left for the children. The only time they would get attention was when they were sick. My mother and her sister are both full-blown hypochondriacs. Go figure.

Long after my grandmother died my mother and her siblings have fought each other for Charles’ affections. It has gotten pretty brutal at times. I have no idea why they bother. I cut ties with that asshole YEARS ago. (Caveat: No matter what I say in this blog, no matter what horrible things I will say about my mother until the day I die…I love my mother. So don’t fuck with her! But I digress again, Bubeleh.) What finally made me snap in regards to Charles was some sort of dinner at my grandparent’s house…I don’t remember the occasion. My mother went for a second helping of something, and Charles glared at her, pointed his fork at her eye and said, “If you weren’t such a pig maybe you could find a man to love you.” My mother’s eyes filled with tears and my heart saturated with a black voluminous rage. I shoved my chair back and let loose a barrage of filth and bile. My muscles were so tense in an effort to keep myself from eviscerating him I could barely breathe and I could feel my bones crunching under the strain. Now when I see him – I do see him on occasion. When my mother tells me to. It makes her happy. Kind of – he is this shrunken little thing. Eyes clouded with cataracts, earlobes down to his shoulders, face and head covered with age spots, and more hair on his ears and nose than on the crown of his head. He’s a sad little figure of a man. As I sit here typing I can still easily muster the utter hatred I have for that boil on Hitler’s taint. But when I see him in person I actually pity him. He knows that he has done many bad things. That he was not a good father. It plagues him. He cries about it daily. Yet still…he does nothing to right his wrongs. He remains cemented to his position of ultimate righteousness and piety. The light that springs forth when God farts. That’s Charles. Pathetic, utterly lost, stinky Charles.

That was what my mother had to contend with. Those were her cards. All unsuited and nothing’s wild. My mother is a very sweet person. She is also highly intelligent. Buuuut, she has zero common sense, no social skills, vocal filter, ability to regulate emotion, and a paucity of practice perspective-taking…okay, she does best when it’s just her and she doesn’t have to play well with others. We’ll leave it at that. It’s not her fault. She was never taught. By anyone. She has changed some of her thinking through years of me yelling and screaming at her. But there is always a price to pay for this change of thinking. It’s like she gets a new set of eyes and decides she needs to try them out by staring directly into the sun for a month or so and is then confused why she is plagued by dark spots and swirls and a scathing headache. Sometimes I think that she can’t really handle some things. She’s pretty delicate in that way. She doesn’t adapt well to change. At all. Think Rain Man and Wapner. But without the head banging.

My mother drives me insane. I know, I know…everyone’s mother drives them insane. But people, considering this DNA crap I’ve been blabbing about…don’t you think that I might ACTUALLY go a little off my nut at times? When it involves my mother I always go off my nut. Her voice turns my blood cold. I constantly pinch the top of my nose, rub my temples and shake my head in utter impotent confusion when I speak with her on the phone. One time very recently I called to check in on her. I asked her how her week had been. Just as she started to talk my cell phone disconnected. My mother does not have call waiting. I tried to call back several times and got a busy signal. So I timed it. It was fourteen minutes before she realized I was not on the other end of the phone. When I was actually back on the phone she didn’t even pause. She started her story right back up. She had a 14 minute monologue about how she has “Seasonal Vertigo.” I’m not making that up. Seasonal Vertigo. Wow. Just…wow. Being in her actual presence turns me into a cracked out weasel. Twitchy. Paranoid. Willing to chew off my own leg just to be released from her trap. Sometimes I even turn into an old sway-backed mare. I just keep walking around in circles, carrying my load, turning the mill, and doing whatever to keep her happy. Just trying to be a good enough daughter.

That is what ties this diatribe all together. Good enough. Will I be good enough? What about my hand of cards? If my mother never had the training, why in the world would I think that I would be any different? I’ve never even changed a diaper for fuck’s sake!! I have no siblings. I was never exposed to any kind of child rearing. How can I be sure that I will not have my child suffer the sins of my mother and me? Simple answer…I can’t. I do not like that answer.

Enough about how my mother was screwed. Let’s talk about my dad.

This blog was written by the oh so talented Miss Emily. Written by: Emily

If you like Emily’s work, you can read more of her writing at

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