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I told someone about this blog recently and I kind of defended the crap I’ve been writing by saying that I’ve been busy, which is part of the truth but not the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help me God. The whole truth is that I can’t say what I want to say because my mother reads this blog or my friend from work or my sister or my ex (no, not that one. The other one) or a real life friend or a blog friend or Griggs because everything I say and do is somehow all about her.

The truth is that I’m tired. And writing makes me more tired because it takes a piece of me with every single word – even the bad ones. The last time I made the effort to write exactly what I felt, I spent the next week defending myself, which is also exhausting.

My brother and I have been helping MoC clean out her dad’s house. It’s quite a job. It’s a sad job. My grandfather kept every paycheck stub he ever earned. Every one, for 50 some odd years. My mom is going through all of his things (including a dozen electric shavers. Yes, TWELVE) and asking us if we want anything and there’s a part of me that’s screaming “FOR GOD’S SAKE, THROW IT AWAY!” but I can’t say anything because almost everything in that house meant something to him and it’s like throwing away his life and I don’t want to be responsible for that.

But that’s not the real reason. The truth and nothing but the truth is that every time I walk into that house I feel guilty. When my father was so sick, I was the only one around. Cancer sucks but bone cancer is just cruel. And nasty. It took everything I had not to run away. After his death my grandmother told me she was proud of me for taking care of him. I remember that it surprised me and I said, “I didn’t do it for him.” She said “I know.” It took me a long time to figure out what she was talking about.

She got sick soon after … and I couldn’t face it. She got to the point where she couldn’t leave the house. When I got married, I didn’t expect her to be there – but she was. She had to be carried into the church, but she was there. It was the first time she had left the house in over a year – and she never left it again. She did that for me, because she loved me – and I abandoned her. I know she forgave me; I know she understood. I’ve never forgiven myself for that and walking into that house reminds me of how selfish I was. Silly, true, but there it is. I feel like I failed her.

There’s nothing I want from that house. I have what I need. Actually, there is something … but my brother has it. He would probably give it to me if I asked, but it means something to him, too. It’s a little toy Jeep with a plastic GI Joe-like figure and a plastic German shepherd dog. It wasn’t a kid friendly house, but when I was about 6, I entertained myself endlessly with them. Yeah, I always lived more inside my head than in the real world. You’re just now figuring that out?

Whenever I get too far inside my head, someone comes along and hauls me out again.

While I’m sitting here crying for no apparent reason (first person to say ‘hormones’ will die a fiery death, so help me God) I have Facebook open and I saw that I had a message from my friend Leslie. The same Leslie who has put up with my crap since we were five years old. The message just said “Love ya.” I have no idea why she said that out of the blue, but it just unraveled me.