NYC

G, P and P

I gripe all the time about my broken parents and their bad decisions. One I can’t bear to speak to and the other one I can’t bear to open letters from in fear of a life threatening emergency story involving The Waffle House, his missing gun or his broken oxygen tank. I know, at this point I really need to lighten up about how affected I become by them. I mean I’m old so what am I waiting for? Sometimes I’ll surprise myself and actually be light and cool about it. I’ll just hang up the phone and shrug “oh well, hope it all works out for them” but then 2 hours later I feel my insides disintegrating. I feel hopeless and want to just eat cereal and stare at my dog for a long time. It’s confusing and frustrating to me because these people haven’t fallen from grace in any way, there’s no time I look back on and remember feeling happy or safe about them. They’ve just become an extension of myself that I’ve been expecting something good to come from but never does and I still just can’t believe it. I’ve thought that the best remedy would be to stage my death and never have to endure knowing their lives anymore. That idea keeps coming up and my husband said he’d help me pull it off. The trouble with that is I picture having to tell my children that story and it feels like a terrible way to start off a relationship.

I’d like to be writing about how lucky I am that in a few hours P will be home and G will be so excited she’ll eat her hard food one piece at a time and no matter how sad some of the characters in this story are P sees me differently. That’s a good thing. And today that’s enough for me.