No

It doesn’t feel good. But it doesn’t always feel bad. I have spent time justifying, and self blaming. Accountability is one word for it. We can be honest can’t we. The way you took that coffee mug and struck yourself, or the way the story was made so that I might truly feel the fear of loss. I felt that. I felt the ceramic and the lies. Feeling those things like a finger in my eye. I feel it in my lungs and I choke on the intent.

I can sit here with my eyes closed, struggling to sleep. Missing my bed, my things, the feeling of achievement. Missing the sound of your laughter before the collapse of everything sane. This is the third straight year that promises of big tax returns has proven to be conflict. The first year you fled to New York only to return strung out and exhausted. You left your children in New York. I fought for you just enough to separate. 6 months later we found a way to fake a future. A return to an insanity. Bonded in fantasy.

The second year your family brought him to town. You wrecked my car twice. Once a hit and run. I put myself in your shoes. That circumstance was never good for you. We barely survived. But survived we did.

When your dad got sick, you were ready to push me out and take it for yourself. I tried to understand, I wanted to understand why we couldn’t talk about it. And now we won’t talk. The snake like ways this has been handled is all I need to…