Oh the joy this past week has been. Said in my very sarcastic and disingenuous voice. For there is no joy in Mudville, mighty Jilly has struck out. Get it? A poem from my 8th grade memory banks has resurfaced. Can I get a do over please?
I did a lot of strolling down memory lane last week. Looking at scrapbooks and other assorted memorabilia from my youth. It got so bad that at one point that B came to me sitting on the floor in my office, took the scrapbook from my hands, made me stand up, and hugged me. For the longest time, he said nothing. Then gently he said Jill, this has to stop, you’re only hurting yourself.
We’ve had the discussion many times before. I can’t make people act a certain way, the way I would act in the same situation. To be loved just as I am, just for simply existing. Some people flat out don’t care and others care too much. Guess which group I fall into?
What galls me the most is how I sit around waiting for scraps. Any little bit of acknowledgement, I glom over & hang onto for dear life. Gives me hope for something more concrete one of these days. And I panic because I feel like I’m running out of time.
No roll call today. Instead I will wallow in my self pity party. Those sad soirees are happening more frequently than my liking. I promise I won’t stay here long. I just need a break from pretending I’ve things all figured out. Yeah I know, I wasn’t fooling anyone.
As always, more to come.