Yesterday, I was talking about my parents and love. It’s taken for granted that parents love their children, but it’s always been obvious to me that this was not necessarily true. When I was in my mid-to-late twenties and fended off questions about me procreating, one of the things I heard was, “It’s different when… Continue Reading
In my last post, I rambled about my parents and love. Or rather, the lack of love my parents have for me. It’s been incremental as a realization. Well, at least on my mother’s isde. I’ve never had any illusions about my father, which in a weird way, made him easier to deal with. He… Continue Reading
I was talking to my mother last night and she asked me how I was doing. I don’t tell my mother anything of real importance. I have been having a really hard time sleeping in the last few weeks because of a personal tragedy and Daylight Saving. I told my mother I was having trouble… Continue Reading
Bagua is my new everything. That’s it. That’s the post. Ha! Not really. I have fallen in love with Bagua as is my wont. When I am attracted to something (or someone), I am ALL IN. maybe not on the theory, but definitely in practice. My teacher is dedicated to Taiji and Bagua. It’s what… Continue Reading
When I had my medical crisis, I had some arguments with my mother about–well, many things. In this post, however, I want to focus on one thing. She has a brother who is a doctor. Maybe. even a heart doctor. He is the oldest of eight children in an Asian family. A very traditional family… Continue Reading
More on Christmas. Here was yesterday’s post, and I’m going to continue my musing. I have hated Christmas and I have been studiedly indifferent to Christmas, but now, I’m feeling warmly about the holiday time. Not Christmas itself, but community. Atnd being alive. As I said in the last post, it’s been a long road… Continue Reading
When my nibbling was six or sever, let’s call them X, I and my bestie took X and my bestie’s baby, we’ll call them Y, to the park for a picnic and later, a swim. My nibling’s mother is pretty exacting and very much a germophobe. I am….not either of those things*. Here’s another thing… Continue Reading
Dementia is brutal. I knew this, of course, but I didn’t know this until my father got it. I wrote yesterday about not knowing when it was dementia and when it was dysfunction, and let me throw depression into the mix. Depression for my father because of course the dementia is making him depressed. I’m saying that… Continue Reading
Dementia is brutal. I’m not making an inflammatory statement by saying that, I think. It takes no prisoner and leaves everyone it comes in contact with hurt, battered, and bruised. Emotionally, if not physically. There is no reasoning with it nor is there any way to get around it. In the last post about this… Continue Reading
I’m so tired. Not physically, though that as well, but of being my mother’s emotional dumping vessel–which has been my role in her life since I was eleven. You know that saying, “Not my monkey, not my circus”? My mother would trounce all over that statement and throw it in the trash. She once complained… Continue Reading