Well it’s the day before Thanksgiving and I’ve finally got to stop running around town. As you may or may not know my wife broke a bone in her foot. Her podiatrist has her in a brace and ordered off the foot for two weeks. She’s supposed to be in a wheelchair but it won’t fit through the door of our 100+ year old house. So I’ve been doing the cooking and cleaning, which I do some anyway. It’s just the dressing her and waiting on her that’s a little hard to get back in the routine of doing.
But I’m getting it done. We’re doing Thanksgiving at our oldest daughter’s this year. She’s doing most all the cooking so I’ll show up early just in case. Thinking back to all the thanksgivings we’ve endured, it’s a wonder I still celebrate the holiday. But now that we got grandkids and my overly sentimental wife, I am contractually obligated to still attend. I don’t know why I am like I am. It used to not bother me to drive 75 miles to my in-laws, parents, or my sister-in-laws house for the holidays. I guess it’s because I couldn’t afford to give my kids any of the nice things they got from them. So I grinned and bared the questions from family, all the while hiding the shame of my mental illness.
So I’m sitting outside with that all too familiar headache I get before the holidays. Dreading even the little driving I have to do tomorrow. I guess it’s a little like PTSD, but mine is mostly self-induced. For too long I kept quiet about this shit. Listening to that voice in my head calling me a lazy idiot. As moments float by, neighbors stop by and cut turnips and mustard out of the garden. It’s sorta of a neighborhood tradition around here, Mr. Brown giving away from the garden’s bounty. We all give of ourselves, it’s pretty much what we do as humans, but often it can be too much. So I sit here and greet my neighbors, take in the pleasant weather, and watch more leaves fall. Knowing that despite the emotions, life’s going to be okay.
But I’m getting it done. We’re doing Thanksgiving at our oldest daughter’s this year. She’s doing most all the cooking so I’ll show up early just in case. Thinking back to all the thanksgivings we’ve endured, it’s a wonder I still celebrate the holiday. But now that we got grandkids and my overly sentimental wife, I am contractually obligated to still attend. I don’t know why I am like I am. It used to not bother me to drive 75 miles to my in-laws, parents, or my sister-in-laws house for the holidays. I guess it’s because I couldn’t afford to give my kids any of the nice things they got from them. So I grinned and bared the questions from family, all the while hiding the shame of my mental illness.
So I’m sitting outside with that all too familiar headache I get before the holidays. Dreading even the little driving I have to do tomorrow. I guess it’s a little like PTSD, but mine is mostly self-induced. For too long I kept quiet about this shit. Listening to that voice in my head calling me a lazy idiot. As moments float by, neighbors stop by and cut turnips and mustard out of the garden. It’s sorta of a neighborhood tradition around here, Mr. Brown giving away from the garden’s bounty. We all give of ourselves, it’s pretty much what we do as humans, but often it can be too much. So I sit here and greet my neighbors, take in the pleasant weather, and watch more leaves fall. Knowing that despite the emotions, life’s going to be okay.
RSS Feed