You Took My Joy. I Want It Back.

One of the hardest things for me to unlearn about the way I was raised, a think I have not unlearned, even now, is the belief that all goodness will be balanced with bad, that, if you have joy, you will have sorrow in equal measure, so it’s best to try to live a life of as few peaks as possible, in order to avoid the valleys.

I had a great week. I’m getting to work on a really cool project–as soon as I can come up with a name for it. I’m doing some acquisitions again, which I’d forgotten how much I really loved. I got to go up to Port Royal and learn a monstrous amount about the town (which no longer exists) and the park ranger’s dreams for it. I’m going to a cool presentation about Belle Meade at Fort Negley this morning. I’m doing a reading this evening. Tomorrow I’m meeting with a writer whose work I’ve long admired. Monday I have another acquisitions meeting. And I’ve made some beautiful yarn this week:

And I’ve got all the inner circles for my afghan made, so now I’m in the difficult, but fulfilling process of piecing them all together.

My dad is in the hospital with congestive heart failure. As he put it, “a little congestive heart failure.” My mom was in the hospital a couple of times last month.

My aunt is on-call so she can’t get down to see them. I’m here. Everyone is so far away.

I’m so mad at them for carrying on like they’re still in fine health. I’m so afraid things are going to get worse before they realize they have to make some major changes. I’m worried they’re going to kill themselves.

And, you know, if they were making a conscious choice to just push and push until they die, I would hate it, but I would respect it.

But I don’t think they’re being honest with themselves about what they’re doing and that upsets me, too.