I've always failed to write anything with a cohesive beginning, middle and end. So let's just roll with that.
I will, however, set the scene.
We are in the midst of a global pandemic. People are sick and dying and no one is leaving their houses. I have not set foot in my place of work since March and it is now September. So naturally, you might expect that there might be a bit of concern on my part about the general chaos, and maybe that's why my panic is fighting through the warm comforting security blanket that lexapro provides.
But no.
I've been navel-gazing. Therapy, long baths, freak-outs and periods of inexplicable non-productivity. I've been using this time to think about everything that I need to do to be better, less panicked and more capable of accepting the bullshit of others. Because really that's what therapy amounts to when you're the daughter of two narcissists and one of them is dying of brain cancer - learning to more effectively digest bullshit.
In the process of "bettering" my coping mechanisms and reentering my "window of tolerance" I find myself facing a few interesting truths:
- Maybe, it is normal to be intolerant of garbage and I'm actually entitled to be intolerant.
- My father is getting much worse. And while I hope this means he is dying (he does not want to live) it is just as likely that this means he is now more permanently disabled.
- I have gotten fat. And I am pissed off that I am pissed off about it because I can see how it happened (not leaving my house for 6 months and eating everything in my fridge during that time) and also I don't want to be defined by my body. I don't want people to look at me differently because of something that is actually such a small part of me. But also I want to be thin. I hate that I want that.
