bright spots and dark spots

I haven't used the space to write about my mother. I think because, on some level, her big-brotheresque stories about being able to constantly monitor me still linger in the back of my mind and I think she'll find it. I don't think I've got any readers who don't know me, and if you know me, you probably know that she and I have a horrible relationship. You probably also know that we haven't actually spoken to each other in over a hear. I use that term, "speaking," fairly liberally, because since I told her that I wouldn't talk to her until she stopped screaming at me (for not appropriately assuaging her fears that I might die while I was dealing with my diagnosis and subsequent surgery and adjuvant therapy planning), she hasn't actually spoken words to me, but has screamed via text message about how she's dying (not true) and how I am a terrible person for abandoning her.
Sometimes I think she's right. Most of the time I appreciate the quiet weeks in between the texts.
She is not well. I know that. But I couldn't keep letting that be my primary concern in life once I ran into something so large that it took all of my focus and strength. I needed to take care of myself before I could take care of her.
A week ago she broke her ankle.
I picked her up from the hospital and took her home and have been stopping by every day to walk her dogs.
It's awful.
At first she was terse, resentful of needing my help, I'm sure. She's moved on to pretending that nothing is wrong, ignoring me or playing dumb or tossing out trump cards when I indicate that I, too, know what it's like to be incapacitated by surgery. To feel frustrated and gloomy and scared. To be in pain that seems like it might never end. To be dependent.
She wasn't there for me in those days. Indeed, two days after getting home from two surgeries and a week in the hospital, she picked a fight with me that led to the ensuing year and half of (relative) silence. 
So she pretends that those days never existed, or that if they did, I am just melodramatic, exaggerating for pity, which lets her be the bigger victim.
And I keep going over there. Keep biting my tongue. Keep not screaming at her for accusing me of shaving my head after finishing chemo to garner more sympathy. And not confronting her about how she lied and told me she had lung cancer, or about how she tried to make me think that Jason was cheating on me.
And I spend a little part of each day feeling like I might explode. And I don't know what to do.
I keep thinking that there ought to be a point when shit stops piling up. I can't be the case that all of my life will be this perpetual onslaught of disasters, right? But it doesn't ever seem to stop and I'm just so fucking tired.
I suppose in these dark moments, it is easy to overlook the bright ones that come in between, and there certainly are bright spots.