This Isn’t A Real Post
It’s a post about why there isn’t a post.
Remember how I said I was working on a long and whiny post about my mother?
I did write that post. It took days, and days, for me to write. And, that’s not like me. I usually write a post in a matter of minutes and then share it with my devoted reader without even proofing it.
Not this post, though, this one was epic, for the ages, with things everyone can relate to.
Well, everyone with a dysfunctional parent anyway.
I wrote it, I read it, I laughed, I cried.
And, then, I deleted it.
It’s supposed to be cathartic to write stuff, like long letters, to and about people who’ve hurt you. You’re never supposed to send (or publish) those letters, and still you’re supposed to feel better. Unburduned. Like a beautiful butterfly, emerging from the cocoon of anger and hurt. Like an addict, finally free of….well, you get the picture.
Except that didn’t happen. I mean, the only thing I felt good about was not publishing a diatribe against someone who will never change, cannot understand her flaws, and ultimately someone who despite it all loves me unconditionally.
So, maybe the catharsis part will hit later. Like the delayed reaction you get when you down the third shot of tequila (not that I’d know what that’s like, people).