Granted, a lot of people think standing around airing all your grievances is a waste of time. This does not stem from Lynn cynically grumbling about its ultimate futility but from her dread of airing her dirty linen in public, as she would put it. She's engaged in the active defense of a failed value (or at least one that failed her), the sanctity of the home. In her mind, each and every home is a private and inviolable little world in which the residents may inflict all matter of horror on one another as long as it's kept behind closed doors. In the 'simpler', meaning 'crueler', days she longs for, if a concerned citizen informed the police that his neighbor got blind drunk every Friday and horsewhipped his wife and kids for blinking, the mob would line up behind the abusive drunk and tell our hero to 'mind his own business'. What she calls a decent respect for the privacy of others is, in fact, a sinister disregard of the suffering of others.
Her own suffering, however that's important. THAT gives her power. Tell her how awful and worthless she is and she'll love you. That way, she gains the invincible status of permanent victim. She can't stand the idea of asking for help. That would mean she's as weak as the rest of mankind. The angriest she's ever been in her life is when a superhuman with a dentist's drill saw her and her son at their worst and crammed help down her throat. Why do you think his fictional analog is such a corn-fed rube. Just one of the many personal failings in her museum of failure.