Tuesday, February 18, 2014

Cards on the Table.

When someone has mixed results to tell you, they often start with prefacing it by saying: "Do you want the good news or the bad news first?" The truth is, there really usually isn't good news, but they are trying to skirt around what the bad news actually is.

To that end, today's accomplishments included a really good spaghetti sauce, as well as what is above, an asparagus and ham pastie. I finished up by knitting another infant hat, using up the rest of a ball of light blue wool blend yarn.

I guess this is the point where the bad news comes in.

Since my father's diagnosis, everyone has been asking me how I have been feeling. Now, to be fair, in regards to sharing such details, I can easily quote Boondock Saints: "Real men hide their feelings. Why? BECAUSE IT'S NONE OF YOUR FUCKING BUSINESS" (capitalization theirs) I am a very private person, so I am extremely careful to let each person see exactly what I want them to see.

But that is past. Time to put the cards on the table. I am going to let everyone know exactly how I am feeling. The truth is, I am angry. Not a little bit, but a long simmering rage that threatens to boil over at any second. The kind where I feel warm and tingly all over, and know that is not due to good feelings, but due to my blood pressure raging, and my jaw hurting from clenching my teeth. The kind of rage that I keep contained, because releasing it will only cause more problems. The kind of rage that scares me.

I am raging at the care my father has received at the hands of the hospital (negligible at best, criminal at worst.) I literally cannot see my father's doctors without engaging in violent fantasies in my head. I want these incompetent fucks to receive some measure of ill will. They had a YEAR of hospitalizations to find out what was causing my father's pain. There were tests that were done that had suspicious results on them, and were brushed off. My father has STAGE 4 cancer, and after being treated by a carousel of physicians, one of them noticed something was wrong. Hopefully it isn't too late.

These people (I refuse to call them doctors) are a menace, and the only thing the hospital does is to serve as a conduit for making money.

For the past year, I have been having panic attacks. I've done pretty good at hiding them, but I know they are there. And I am angry about that. Very specifically, I am angry at myself. I should be better than this, stronger than this. It turns out I am not. Sometimes I  wonder if the anger is the only thing giving me energy, keeping me from just wanting to crawl into a ball under the covers.

I am angry at circumstances I have no control over. Due to things I cannot control, my family has shot from the upper middle class to the poverty level in about two months. TWO FUCKING MONTHS. That was for emphasis. In the land of opportunity, everyone should be experiencing upward mobility. I guess this just isn't the case

I am angry at God for this, just in case he is there. I don't really feel a need to explain this one, so I'll just let it sit here.

I am angry because I feel like a whole generation of us were lied to. We were taught each one of us was special, that we all had our own unique talents. We were taught that we had to study hard, go to college, and that hard work would be rewarded. I look around me everyday and see members of my generation toiling under the same delusions, and I am filled with rage. I then get angry at myself for blaming other people for my own problems.

At the end of the day, I am angry at myself for even letting this out. So the offer is up. When there is a problem, you do what must be done. I know I need to keep my head down, keep pushing and hopefully we are going to come out of this all right. I'm operating on Wiley Coyote logic right now. If I stop moving, I will fall.

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