I’m sorry your upbringing sucked. The accidental child of people who probably shouldn’t have had kids in the first place.
You weren’t your Mom’s favorite; that’s on her. Or was, considering she’s dead now. Love yourself for who you are and to hell with your Mom’s opinion.
You did the best you could when Grandma lived with you. But you didn’t get help; a visiting nurse could have taken some of the stress off you. But honestly I think you enjoy stress. You cut yourself and enjoy watching the blood flow.
Get therapy. My doctor told me that the human psyche is like a garbage can. You can fill it up and fill it up, but eventually it will overflow. Deal with what’s causing the depression and be at peace. Trust me, peace is wonderful.
Stop talking like you’re marking time until you’re dead. You sound like your mother. Also sounds like you’re fishing for sympathy or help. Either way I wish you’d go to a doctor.
Speaking of doctors, I realize you’re in pain. You’re eighty, your bones are brittle as glass; untreated scoliosis twists your back until you resemble an umbrella handle. Tell Dad to get on-line and look up any and all forms of help to relieve the pain.
I love you.