I dreamed about you again last night. We were in a fight, big surprise. It was about caregiving and my piss-poor attitude. I thought we worked this out already. Perhaps not while you were alive, but afterward, maybe?
My self-imposed sentence to a life of regretful solitude, my own creeping health issues, my inability to conquer depression...I know those things don't make up for my lack of empathy with you, but they've changed my perspective.
For the first 47 years of my life, I didn't realize that the world had actual other people in it. And it was only in the last couple of years that I realized that this has implications for how I ought to be treating them. I'm trying to make changes and do the difficult work of balancing self-care with service and self-sacrifice.
Who am I kidding? That last line about service and self-sacrifice is pure BS. There's always a selfish agenda with me. I'm still just seeking some kind of payoff, some reciprocal, transactional benefit for good ol' me.
I don't know what exactly we were fighting about in my dream. I just remember cleaning the bathroom to the soundtrack of another justified tirade against me from you.
This begs the question, and so do I: Where, oh, where are you now? I'd have thought by this time, you'd have left me to my own devices, to fumble and stumble, while you enjoy the karmic rewards of the afterlife, riding winged horses and the like.
There's still work to be done, I know. Does this mean that you aren't through with me yet? Not done bitching me into being a better version of me? I'd like specifics, please!
Take better care of the cats. And myself. Do the un-fun, responsible things that lead to long-term reward -- or at least to things not going to shit prematurely. Be proactive, not reactive.
And so, specifically:
Install the cat door to the garage for Spooky. Or else work out a plan for indoor integration with the other cats. Figure out Eddie's diet, as in, why does this cat continue to barf more than she actually eats.
Oh, and figure out what's going on with my woodstove before I get permanent brain damage from carbon monoxide poisoning.
These are just some guesses. Let me know if I'm on the right track, would ya?
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I've changed my comments settings to allow for anyone to comment. All comments are welcome, even spineless potshots from anonymous posters. Please, by all means, give me the tongue lashing I so richly deserve. I promise not to hunt you down and melt your keyboard with my plasma cannon. I won't, however, promise not to pout and make that face you can't stand.