"She let my cat die alone in the cat litter."

This is the story I've been telling since Dobby died.  Dobby was a large back and a little white cat we had since our first apartment in 2005.  He passed away in the late teens due to FIV.  And my mother refused to have him put down and he died in the cat litter in her basement.  He was my cat, but she took him in after we moved a block away from her and we were right on the busy road.  Dobby was a roamer (he was fixed, but loved to travel) and we didn't want him hit by a car.  So he moved in with my mom a block down the street, away from the busy road.  He was 15lbs of pure muscle.  His brother, Harry, was a fat orange cat and was 15lbs of pure chub.  They loved each other and would sleep on each other and wash each other.  Both had very different personalities.  Harry was scared of most things, whereas Dobby was fearless.  Harry was lazy, whereas Dobby was always on the go.  As they got older, they lazed around in the yard most days.  And Dobby got sicker and sicker as time went on and passed away around 2015 or so.  Harry didn't die until 2022, both of natural causes, but we had to put Harry down as he was suffering greatly. 

But so was Dobby.  And my mother knew this and never took him to the vet and just let him die, alone, in the cat litter, in the dank basement of her apartment building.  

I was furious, because she had the money, she just didn't want to do it.  

But two days ago, my mother brought him up, because her cat Sabrina is dying.  She said "You better get a box."  I said "If she's dying, we will take her to be put down."  She said "No!"  I said "Well, I am not going to let her suffer!"  She said "She's not suffering!"  I said "Well, then she's not dying."  But she is.  She's a skeleton with fur.  And she's almost 18 years old.  

She then said "You remember Dobby?  I found him him the cat litter, and he wasn't dead yet, so I brought him upstairs, and he looked out the window and died in my arms."  Even through dementia my mother always has to pretend she's hero.  She's always the winner, always the person who saves the day, always the one on top.  Why is that so important?  I mean, I get it, it feels nice to be winner, right?  But how does it feel good to fake it?  How does that make anyone feel better?  It's untrue and they know it.  Or maybe they believe their lies?  

I know my mother does most of the time.  She recently made up this story about how her insurance paid for her to have a walker with wheels on it, you know, the kind with the seat?  And she keeps wanting her insurance to buy her another one. I said "Your insurance never bought you one, you've said this story before and I've already corrected you.  I bought you that walker.  Not the insurance.  I don't know why you keep saying that."  She said "Oh wow, my mind must be really gone!"  I literally looked at her said "Yup, your brain likes to make things up."  Because all she does is lie.  And she's done that for her whole life.  

"Well, this situation seems like it makes me look bad, it certainly couldn't have happened that way, so it must have happened a different way..." says her brain, while she makes up a new and improved version of whatever story she's trying to remember.    

So now apparently, she held Dobby as he died.  Bullshit.  My cat died alone in the cat litter when he could have been brought to the vet to be put down.  

Here's the thing, recently before that, around a year before, she took my two other cats, and put them down without telling me!  I didn't even get to say goodbye to them!  So why make Dobby suffer?  Literally nothing she does or says ever makes any sense.  

I feel sorry for her.  I honestly do.  It must be so horrible to live with a brain like that.  To not be able to trust your memories, because of how much you lie.  To never feel good enough, so you lie about how amazing you are.  And to let that make you feel good about yourself.  To not feel shame when you lie because to you, the truth doesn't matter as much as adoration does.  To be so fake in a world that allows for fakeness because people are too stupid to question it otherwise, but when they finally do catch you, the world will cast you out quicker than flicking a switch.  It's like, how can you be so precariously perched on the wall of life like that, always teetering to one side or other, moments away from losing all your adoration.  But that's okay, those people were assholes anyways, now you can move to new people to dupe instead!  And the cycle starts over again.  It's sad and sick and weird and strange that so many people live this way every single day.  

Why?  Why does narcissism exist?  How did it happen?  And why do so many people have it?  

I prefer reality.  Yes, it's not as fun.  Sometimes I wish I was still a sheep.  But once your eyes are opened, all you see is how fake the world is sometimes and how many narcissists are living in it.  

I won't correct her about Dobby.  Not today.  But if she brings it up again I will.  And I am sure she will double down about her lie.  It doesn't matter.  It doesn't change the truth.  But god, it makes me wonder, how many lies did she tell me my whole life?  I bet most of the things she told me were lies.  I mean, I already found out about so many of them.  But I bet there are infinite more.  It makes me question everything I know from childhood.  We all should.  Because all narcissists are liars.  But pay attention to the stories about your narcissistic mother being the hero.  Because I bet you fifty farts every single one is made up.