I thought and rethought that last post. But I let it stay. After all, it’s true.
I felt like I was being oddly cryptic, though, to put it out there and not explain myself.
Basically, my mother’s an alcoholic, I guess since about when that picture was taken. And I’ve spoken to her once in the last eight years.
I’d be prouder of myself if I could handle a relationship with her, but I haven’t been able to figure out how to do it and keep myself okay at the same time.
It’s not a dramatic story. She tried to be a good parent. She didn’t want to hurt anybody. She’s just profoundly unhappy. I wish it wasn’t like that, but it is.
So, that’s it.
With that said, just to clarify… I am happy. Most days, I’m happy to the point where I feel like I’m tempting fate.
I do think it’s a choice. Very much so. But when you’re as embarrassingly lucky as I am in so many ways… it isn’t a hard one.