Stopping at Seth’s after buying a supply of pot oil, he invites us in. Donning masks we sit chatting in his living room for over an hour. But afterwards, even though it seemed like a lovely visit, confusion sets in.
It takes a few days before feeling centered, and this seems to happen after any interaction with one of the three brothers that have formed some semblance of family.
There is love for them, but not an ability to be with any of them. A lack of trust prevails. The pleaser comes forth, the one my mother honed to fake perfection that says one thing but means another.
The chatter box comes out of my mouth happily flitting from one subject to another, when what I really want to say is, “Why did you make a life of being a close buddy to a person who abused me so horribly? Then spent the rest of his life making me pay for it? Why did you buddy up against me?”
Let them have their little group, and I can partake when or if I want, but decline when I want to without excuse, regret, or guilt. It took a few days for my internal world to become a kinder place to be.
Inside felt like a wasteland, no kindness fostered, just the critic. Being around any one of them brings out the plastic doll my mother created that fakes everything, smiling as you wrong me.
Quietly my soul came back. Quietly my life returns. Quietly the joy of living fills me bringing warmth where coldness had frozen all kindness.