My husband and I were having lunch yesterday and I mentioned that I was planning on sending a Father’s Day gift to his son-in-law just as I had sent a Mother’s Day gift to his daughter. The following conversation ensued:
“That’s thoughtful of you, when is Father’s Day, I can never remember”
“The third Sunday in June, I can never remember when Mother’s Day is, myself”
“Sometime in May?”
“Yeah, second Sunday in May. Of course given my history, it’s no wonder I remember Father’s Day and completely forget Mother’s Day” (We both laugh)
“I mean, there is no holiday for abusive, psychotic parents, is there? And what would you send for a gift? A dozens dead roses; a bottle of snake venom; a gift certificate for Dr. Kevorkian?” (Cackling laughter)
“You crack yourself up, don’t you?” said my husband, laughing.
“Yeah, I do. Gift certificate for Dr. Kevorkian – that’s funny”
People like me, with my life, are not supposed to feel bad. Not supposed to be depressed or sad. On the surface we’ve got the good life. My husband is gainfully employed with a decent salary. We have money in the bank. Our house is the nicest on the block and retaining it’s value. Our monthly expenses are way below our income. We are both relatively healthy. But feeling good is not always about the material, or at least not the material one can see.
Yeah, I know, I know – the man without shoes and the man without feet. And people without jobs or homes or food – yadda, yadda, yadda. The world is a horrible depressing place and my little itty-bitty world is just all sunshine and flowers and yet…
Telling myself, admonishing myself, yelling at myself that I should be oh so grateful – not working. I don’t want sympathy, empathy or in-put of any kind. I do not want anyone telling me to buck up, suck it up, telling me it’s not all about me (and how is MY life NOT about me? I don’t understand that one.)
I just don’t want to feel bad about feeling bad.