And when the next letter inevitably comes, you are so weary, so used to being weary. What it says doesn’t even matter. The words themselves don’t matter because it’s all so cyclical. Variations on a theme. Abusive monotony. You can hear about the horror that is you only so many times before you’re bored with it, really; the lifelong litany of charges against you. Nevertheless, you still open it, you still read it. Partly because that’s what you’re supposed to do. Partly because you’re helpless not to. “There’s power in the blood†suddenly has a whole new meaning. And who knows, maybe there will be a searing revelation of some newly discovered blight on your character. A new frontier in the science of what’s wrong with you. An incurable strain of personality, perhaps. A 10th planet in your sorry little galaxy. Drumroll, please. As you read, however, you realize, Nope. Nothing new here. There’s the pointy Xeroxed scrawl. There’s the perpetual indictment. The words are different, sure, but the idea is always the same. You get to the bottom of the copy and notice the last line is cut off. You mentally fill in the blanks, call your father, ask him if you’re right. Yes, he sighs. Where’s the original, you ask. I don’t know, he sighs again and you picture that big black file drawer she has. When you hang up, you stare at the muddle of words, clench your jaw, and declare yourself immune. But there’s no vaccination, not really, and as time goes on, the poison leaches deep into some unreachable limbic pool in your brain.
Oh, Tracey. I don’t even know what to say – but I really, really feel for you. And you’re right – it does get boring. Strangely, horribly, appallingly boring. And you try not to let it get to you, because you’re just so sick and tired of it. But still. Like you said. Power in the blood. I’m guessing my situation is different from yours. But regardless, just in this post at least, similarities are there. And so, like I said, I really feel for you.
Can I do anything for you? Cookies? Bread? A tupperware container of roasted garlic and olive oil and a few baguettes? It’s very soothing stuff.
I hope tomorrow is a better day.
Jayne
Jayne — Oh, you’re so sweet. This post is one I started working on months ago, when the incident was fresh, and I just recently finished it. It seemed easier to finish with a little bit of distance, you know? So the feelings aren’t so raw right now, although the situation is always ongoing. But thank you for your wonderful offer! Can I take a raincheck for when I really need it? 😉
And I’m so sorry that there are similarities in our situations. I understand. I do.
Raincheck it is! Any time. Really.
I had the same reaction as Jayne. My heart just aches for you. I can’t begin to imagine. But all of us out here who read your blog feel an attachment to you, and a desire for the pain to stop. Sometimes the least you can do is the best you can do. Pray.
CV — You know, the pain of it ebbs and flows because it’s such longstanding situation, but thank you for your warm, kind heart.
I’m sorry for your troubles, Tracey. All I got is a CD of hip music I that can send you to cheer you up.
Rejection is painful…always. So sorry, Tracey, that this has been part of your life for so long. It must get so very old! (((Hugs)))