A little angst, please.

I visited my parents this weekend. Sometimes this goes well. This was not one of those times. Now, I am 61 years old. I have had many years dealing with my mother, who is an unhappy person who seems to think we should all be in that boat with her, especially me. I am a disappointment to her, I guess. And fortified as I am with experience of her nastiness, she still can blind-side me. So I left carrying my very heavy cross, again. The good thing is that it didn't take a long time to move off my pity pot. You see, every so often, I get into that old belief that what she thinks about me is actually about me. It isn't. It's about her, who she is, what she sees and hears, none of which looks like what I see or hear. And that is sad. As angry as I got, I could still feel how awful it must be to be her. And I could be really happy that I didn't get whatever gene triggers her unhappiness. Grateful as hell, actually. I tried on that persona earlier in this life, and it was an ill fit. I prefer to be joyful and dance around a lot. Sometimes, it's really hard work.