Yesterday was the funeral. I didn’t love him. I didn’t like him. I don’t know how he felt about me. How much was me flinching before emotionally being hit and how much was him projecting his rage at me coming before his ‘great love’. It doesn’t matter any more. He won the war – destroyed my family from the inside out. I won the race – I’m still here to do something else.
I do think that funerals should be a ritual of the past. Maybe that’s bitterness talking. It’s exhausting and expensive and fraught with distortions. Can it be emotionally healthy to start the grieving process with a fully distorted view of the deceased? The man was a tyrant. He fired people from a church the week before Christmas… who does that? He does… ah, did. At least that’s the story that I’ve heard.
I think I expect too much. My husband and my mom both claim I’m to frightening to be told the truth.
Here’s the real problem. I bore myself to death when I write.