Sour

The fantasy will kill, as it distracts from the reality. I think I stayed so attached to the story of a loving family, despite a bully of a father who didn't love me, because I so needed to believe I had been loved, a bit, as a child, by my mother and brothers. That I had been seen and understood, and given a chance, they would make amends of some sort, but circumstances got in the way of a closer relationship. I've been chipping away at this carapace for thirty years, clearing away the fairy tale, getting down to all the raw truth. The beautiful, stark, naked reality.

And it is beautiful. Freedom has always come with it, as each layer peeled away. Life has been seeping, then streaming in, with each moment of insight, every ping of revelation.

Lately, it's meant me giving up even the glimmer of any kind of relationship with any of them, including nieces. Nor would I want it, not in reality. Letting go of the fantasy of someone saying, "Oh, but how could they have done that to you?" Of my mother even thinking of acknowledging harm done, other than the innocent martyr's self flagellation of "OH, I was a terrible mother!" without specifics to indicate she was actually aware of having done anything that warranted forgiveness. This will not happen.

Which all comes down to gently snapping myself away from any such thoughts. Let the dream go, and wake up all the way. This is where I came from, this is who I am, this was the hand I was dealt. I don't need anything from them, I expected nothing, and what little I would have liked I now renounce.

Sour grapes? Sure, perfect tale of the usefulness of rationalization. If I can't have the prize, sitting and yearning won't get it. Best to walk away, and leave the desire there as well. Anyway, maybe the grapes were sour. Not a bad way to cope with the unobtainable. I don't need their love, it wasn't real anyway.

Let the dead bury the dead.