I blog gluten-free

Friday, January 25, 2013

All I Need is a Spanish Drunk to Translate...

Communication of late, with people I'm the closest to, or so I thought, has taken on a bizarre turn I can only describe as this... "Remember that counterfeiting episode of I Love Lucy? All I need now is a Spanish drunk and a few over-excited gendarmes." (It might not solve anything, but I'm laughing thinking about it.)

Yea Gods!

When I have good news, I don't need a list of everything that went wrong, everything that is wrong. I'm getting more and more of the good. The goal right now is to heal myself, to laugh, to prepare myself, so I can celebrate all the good and prep myself.

I cannot handle everyone's problems. This is apparent. I do not need guilt for things that I could not help, things I'm sick thinking about. I don't like it when I have to keep explaining, "What part of, when I am taken off medications, is it sane to go to a doctor who will put me back on and on three more besides, starting a vicious cycle, and being nasty. And knowing that things are hurting me, you "forgive me" for being sick in public (Oh, thank you. I'll try not to do that again.)- And then, I get a full on bitch-fest for daring to be so, instead of hiding?! I am a repository for everything? I have to know who died, who is sick, who is in the middle of a family battle, that you wish so and so would do XYZ? I have an idea. Try it on the other child. G'head! Jeff loves intrigue! In fact, I'm certain I'll hear his response from you later.

Look, while I don't like feeling sick, nor out of control, nor not being able to be understood, I also don't enjoy my privacy, my choices taken. I don't appreciate getting a lecture MEANT to hurt me, out of love of course, you'd only burst my balloon out of love, yes?-and don't want to keep focusing on the bad. STOP. We discussed this. And three days later, you forgot. But you can remember bad things, and anything that doesn't fit your "good girl" view of me forever. You can't remember a plant I bought WITH you when I mention it, but insist I bought medicines I never bought? And when I check on your health, it's because I love you. I understand you're in pain. I just wish like hell you'd understand me. My privacy, my rights, including moving on and being happy, and being myself, not the mold you made for me, and doing what I must because what you are trying to do hurts me. I love you...quit hurting me. You are not Joan Crawford.

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