So I’m easing into this because I don’t want to ruffle any feathers. The story of my life…keeping the peace. Making the way smooth for everyone else, my own needs and feelings be damned. Because I know that I can deal with it, but everyone else… well everyone else needs to be protected, right?
But protected from what? From life? From the ugly truth? Or am I just protecting myself? Keeping my own carefuly maintained aura of wifely and motherly perfection as clean as possible so I don’t have to deal with the aftermath. With the mounds of dirt that I’ve swept under the rug for years. The secrets I’ve kept from everyone. The lies I’ve told, especially the ones I told myself.
I’m going to be 42 this year.. My dad died when he was 44. What if his fate is mine and I only have 2 years to live? How do I want to live them?
It’s a rhetorical question but the pushy ass voice in my head would still say, “Well you can’t think that way, Felix. You HAVE to be the responsible one. You HAVE to be the strong one. YOU have to hold it all together. Because that’s what we do. We hold it together so everyone else can make it through.
Then in the end we die.
Oh, fuck THAT.
That depressing cycle ends with this bitch right here. So pull up your big-girl panties, Felix. You are going to face the fucking music for the first time in your life and you’re going to deal with it. ALL of it.
Pack a bag. Find a place, even if it’s on someone’s couch. Prepare a speech for the kids and in-laws, but dammit, live your fucking life for YOU… for ONCE.