The biggest problem for me this time of year is the large amount of time I have to fill, and the small amount of activity I have to fill it with. I sit and get caught up in reams of meaningless thought. A nauseating and endless loop of blah blah blah that stretches from ear to shining ear.
I get caught up when I read things from people that have been altered by the personality disordered, and how they say we should be some kind of a flat line.
At least none we should be willing to talk about lest we appear to be less than someone who makes each day one of constant self improvement. That we should be blogging as if we are a finished product and be sharing how we became whole again.
I don't get it.
The day will never come when I don't have to sit on my hands to keep myself from going down and throttling my mother like a Sunday dinner chicken.
It's not hyperbole. It's not embellishment. It's a constant fight to suppress this urge.
And I don't care who knows.
Which brings me to my round about point.
The reason I don't care is because I know I am not the person that is fucked up. It's her. And I'll be goddamned if I am going to become some shrinking violet and not tell it like it is about that fucking slut from hell.
I am not fucked up.
You are not fucked up.
We are not fucked up.
(ok we are fucked up but they made us this way)
They have no problem telling the most outrageous lies about their sons and daughters.
Why would any of us shy away from telling the truth about them, or showing the emotions they have left of us with to sort out on our own?