Why is embarrassment so hard for me to deal with, and why can I not even spell it? I blame (not the right word, but yes it sort of is) my Father, who puts image before everything, his own physical well being, and mine. I was raised to look nothing less than perfect, never limp even if you only have one leg.
I told him that we should meet later to talk about “us”. As if there’s an us. As if it’s not just him, and me seeing how much of him that I can stand, and having him still urge me to get more down my throat.
I feel like a deflated balloon today. Like I’m giving up on something, like I’m surrendering to something. Probably work. Probably just work, it’s always just work. And the fact that I woke up too late to do anything that I want to do, although that is certainly not true. As I reinflate, I realize that it was kind of nice to have the pressure off for a minute, just a minute ago, when I wasn’t trying to do anything. Now I feel the catches, like a balloon trying to inflate amidst a tangle of tree branches. Or more accurately, like my lungs trying to inflate amidst broken and bent ribs.