It’s been a while since I’ve talked to my folks now and… just like the last time it’d been a long time, it feels better every day. A sick sort of better like having lost a limb that was rotten with infection. Alive but not necessarily intact. Further from the advancing fever that threatened to kill you but missing something nonetheless.
I’m not sure what it is about them that I hate so much but I guess I’ve come to accept that it is a type of hate. I love them too, of course. They’re family. But I hate them just the same. I hate that I felt like I could fix them. I hate that they liked it when I tried. I hate that I wasn’t a person to them and that the terms I laid out to them were unacceptable – not even worth dignifying with a response.
But it helps that they relent in trying to contact me, still not having absorbed one fucking iota of what I’ve ever fucking said to them. No recognition of what I’ve said. What I’ve asked. Reminds me I did the right thing.
So yes, every time one of them reaches out bleating, but not reading – it’s annoying. A reminder of things lost. Opportunities missed.
But every day without that fever reaching for my brain is better than the last.