Meet Bridget, patron saint of insanity, absentia and mile-high shoes.
I still haven't spoken to Lochlan.
Do grown-ups still indulge in silent treatments or is it immature? You know what? Call it self-preservation, I don't care. Call it childish. Call it bullshit. If I talk to him I will mess up and I don't feel like messing up anymore. I've graduated to becoming a functional human and I'd like to stay this way.
That is, if you'll have me even though I can't really hear you unless you're facing me, and you don't mind the rather formidable ghosts who walk on each side of me. Oh and the rather unruly husband who stands in front of me and serves to be the oldest and biggest example of childish you will ever meet. Ben has a point though. Don't mess up, bee. Don't do it. Don't go. Don't have doubts. Don't think he might be right. Don't listen to him. Understand that he's hurting and that you can't help him anymore.
Right.
I know.
So I will be childish too.
It's not all that hard. You should try it.
Ben weaves in and out between the ghosts and places some chips on my shoulders and knocks others off and forces my back up and my chin out and mends and breaks my heart daily. That's what immaturity is. It's refusing to talk to people who are selfish and who want to hurt you while they fulfill their own needs, it's avoiding those who do not have your best interests at heart.
I'm just old enough, it seems, to understand that, and little else about what is going on.
Maybe at lunch today I'll start a food fight. I bet that would go over well with Satan, who thinks we are, as ever, downright amusing.
As are the shoes today. Be glad you're not in them.
