My mother sought no one's belief more than mine. This is likely because no one believed her less than I did. I was the man of the house, and as such, I was her principle bullshit repository.
"I know what I have to do, now," she would pronounce airily.
What followed that weighty preamble? It hardly mattered. It could be kicking my sister out. It could be finally filing for divorce. Or it could be dating again. Or it could be leaving one of those losers. It could be going back to school, losing weight, changing careers, going on a trip, "learning computers," reconnecting with conspicuously absent friends. It could be almost anything. I knew only one thing for certain: it would never, ever be in the remotest danger of happening.
"Why don't you save us both a lot of trouble and heartache and stop lying to yourself?" I'd say. "Or at least stop lying to me."
She'd wail something about having such an unsupportive, hurtful child, and then she'd rush out and prove me wrong by vigorously not following through. On anything. And then one day, reminded of her false start, she'd identify the blocking issue. "Yeah, the thing is, I would have dated...but you're just not ready for me to date again," she'd say. "I couldn't do that to you." Or maybe it was that "we" couldn't afford for her to go to computer class.
"How much is the class?" I'd ask.
"Whatever it is, we can't afford it. Not with school shopping coming up."
I bestowed upon her an Indian name: She Who Talk'um Shit. (Clearly, I hadn't met an Indian yet.) Mom's misery was chronic, and so were her hollow vows to do something about it. Our money problems were a common theme, but she always had a ready solution that involved a career change or stock tips or Amway. But even being scammed by Amway requires some degree of follow-through on the victim's part. She doubtlessly frustrated them as much as she did me.
"Do you know what else gives the illusion of progress?" I'd ask, exasperated. "Actually making progress. It's very convincing."
After she'd contracted cancer, the shit-talk became unremitting. "I know what I have to do, now," she'd say. "Yoga!" Or "crystal pendants!" Or "sailing classes!" Or "wheat germ!" Or "pyramid power!"
"Chemo!" I'd counter. "Or radiation!"
"Those hardly ever help anyone," she snorted. What a unsupportive, hurtful child.