Friday, October 30, 2009
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Sicklethruster Encourages Philly Mormon Missionaries to Trespass
I ran across this post on Philadelphia Mission President Murray's Called to Serve blog. I left a comment, and the post was deleted. Luckily for us, Google's Way Back Machine is more than happy to provide us with a cached copy of his lovely post about illegal Mormon missionary activities, and I'd like to share it with you (oh, and as an interesting aside, he was responsible for this Apple ad):
Mike and Joyce Murray's experiences while serving as Mormon Mission President for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints in the the Pennsylvania Philadelphia Mission from July 2007 - July 2010.
Mike and Joyce Murray's experiences while serving as Mormon Mission President for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints in the the Pennsylvania Philadelphia Mission from July 2007 - July 2010.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Up On the Housetop, Click, Click, Click
Each week our missionaries will talk to 8,000 - 8,500 people. Of these, about 250 will show an interest in learning about the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. It is our desire to teach them and invite them to be baptized.
Many of these people have no familiarity with God, prayer, scriptures, attending church and feelings that come from the Holy Ghost. Thus it can take lots of encouragement, patience, gentle persuasion and creativity to help these "investigators" as they experiment with the gospel and being to see all that is available to them.
The following comes from one of our missionaries who was determined to help his investigator come to church:
"This past Sunday it was imperative that Betsy come to church in preparation for her baptism. I was a bit worried because she is on some medication that makes it extremely hard for her to wake up in the morning. She had missed the previous 2 Sundays at church so we took drastic measures to make sure she was there.
On Sunday morning my companion and I decided to stop by Sarah [Wait! Betsy or Sarah? --Ed] and Tom's house at 8:15am to make sure they were awake and getting ready to be to church by 9am. When we knocked on the door, no one came and there were no lights on in the house. So, I called both of their cell phones and no one answered. My companion said, "Oh well," and began to walk back to the car.
I wasn't about to give up that easily. I walked around the back of the house and began looking for a way to get their attention. Their bedroom is on the second floor and I noticed that if I could only get on the roof, I could walk up to their window and knock furiously until they woke up. As I looked for a path up, I noticed a pile of cinder blocks not too far from the wall leading to the roof and I got an idea.
I called to my companion who was still on the other side of the house. Here is an excerpt from my thought process "I am tall and marginally strong. My companion is small and marginally light.....hmmm....." DING! (LIGHTBULB!) So I had him climb onto the cinder blocks and I lifted him the rest of the way onto the roof. He was a bit apprehensive at first (it was raining) but he agreed.
Once on the roof, he waltzed up to their window and began tapping repeatedly until he got a response. TA DA! Betsy awoke and came downstairs laughing and saying "I'm up! I'm up!" That day not only did Betsy, but Tom and their daughter Keisha all came to church! The moral of the story is: There's always something more you can do, just be creative!"
Many of these people have no familiarity with God, prayer, scriptures, attending church and feelings that come from the Holy Ghost. Thus it can take lots of encouragement, patience, gentle persuasion and creativity to help these "investigators" as they experiment with the gospel and being to see all that is available to them.
The following comes from one of our missionaries who was determined to help his investigator come to church:
"This past Sunday it was imperative that Betsy come to church in preparation for her baptism. I was a bit worried because she is on some medication that makes it extremely hard for her to wake up in the morning. She had missed the previous 2 Sundays at church so we took drastic measures to make sure she was there.
On Sunday morning my companion and I decided to stop by Sarah [Wait! Betsy or Sarah? --Ed] and Tom's house at 8:15am to make sure they were awake and getting ready to be to church by 9am. When we knocked on the door, no one came and there were no lights on in the house. So, I called both of their cell phones and no one answered. My companion said, "Oh well," and began to walk back to the car.
I wasn't about to give up that easily. I walked around the back of the house and began looking for a way to get their attention. Their bedroom is on the second floor and I noticed that if I could only get on the roof, I could walk up to their window and knock furiously until they woke up. As I looked for a path up, I noticed a pile of cinder blocks not too far from the wall leading to the roof and I got an idea.
I called to my companion who was still on the other side of the house. Here is an excerpt from my thought process "I am tall and marginally strong. My companion is small and marginally light.....hmmm....." DING! (LIGHTBULB!) So I had him climb onto the cinder blocks and I lifted him the rest of the way onto the roof. He was a bit apprehensive at first (it was raining) but he agreed.
Once on the roof, he waltzed up to their window and began tapping repeatedly until he got a response. TA DA! Betsy awoke and came downstairs laughing and saying "I'm up! I'm up!" That day not only did Betsy, but Tom and their daughter Keisha all came to church! The moral of the story is: There's always something more you can do, just be creative!"
Sunday, October 11, 2009
FaceBook, Religious Information and Zombies
For those of you who don't "know" me, I'm a nevermo exmo groupie who was raised in Christian fundamentalist churches. I visit this site [RfM] because I was almost an investigator at one point, and I fell in love with you guys. (I haven't found a "Recovery from Snakehandling" site yet, and many of the issues exmos face I also face. I'll talk about that more later, if you're interested.)
I'm a strong atheist, but I don't look down on people who hold religious beliefs (although I've been watching "The Atheism Tapes," and there is an argument to be made that society could be better off with out religion, but that's not why I'm posting this morning).
I'm posting this morning because I've read many of your posts about whether you should come out as exmo on FB. I've read about your frustration with the Mormon polls and quizzes and the FP stuff people post on your walls. Well, now that's happening to me.
I reluctantly joined FB a few years ago because my then-employer thought it would be a great networking tool for headhunters. Meh. Not really. But I did get to connect with lost friends and family, and I kept my posts pretty innocuous and scandal free.
Then I left that job, more people joined FB, and I actually started to have fun on it. I'd post things I thought were interesting or silly, and we were having a rocking good time. Here's the rub -- I kept my political, relationship and religious information blank. I figured people could ask me themselves if they really cared, and I figured that info was really no one's business as I have "friends" on FB that I have never met IRL. Information about my address is blank, too.
One day I noticed that you can set your religious belief status to "ACLU." I was like, "Hey -- that's pretty cool," so for over two years, that was my status.
I also have an aversion to Zombie attack, and if you are my friend on FB, you might be aware that I score HORRIBLY on the "Will You Survive a Zombie Attack" quizzes. I try flamethrowers, Molotov cocktails, I avoid melee situations, yet my odds at surviving zombie attacks are low. (No, I don't believe in zombies.)
And that's the point -- I don't believe in zombies (although I'm a HUGE fan of The Stinque Zombie Bible). If you knew me, you'd know I dig "Shaun of the Dead," "28 Days Later," Clive Barker and "The Serpent and the Rainbow." But, it bears repeating, I do not believe in zombies.
(Back to FB)
I try to keep away from posting religious stuff unless it's this guy's graph of how The Rapture was supposed to occur on September 21, 2009. (Oh, how convenient -- he's changed the date to 10/21/09. We might still be in deep doo-doo.)
So, yeah. I posted the rapture countdown clock because even the most fundamental of fundamentalists *knows* that you can't predict the rapture, and Jesus is coming "like a thief in the night" (that's comforting!), and well, don't worry about when it's coming, cuz trying to predict the rapture kept hermits living unwashed, unshaven and unshorn in caves for waaaay too long.
That has been the extent of my foray into the religious on FB, unless you count my criticism of tax-exempt entities who dip their toes (or go for total immersion) in political waters -- that makes me a little cross-eyed crazy.
So, here's the point. People are now sending me FB apps with Jesus knocking at my door. WTF? I DO NOT LIKE ZOMBIES! I DO NOT WANT TO LOOK THROUGH MY PEEPHOLE AND SEE JESUS ON MY PORCH KNOCKING ON MY DAMN DOOR. Zombie, be gone! And it's apparent that I do not have the skillz necessary to survive a zombie attack -- FB has told me so -- so please don't send any zombies my way!
I have now changed my FB religious status to "Atheist," and I am wondering what kind of shitstorm that will bring. I'm going to start calling out people who send Zombie Jesus to my house. Clearly they don't like me and want to send me into some sort of apoplectic fit caused by zombie fear.
All kidding aside, I am thinking about developing a FB app where I can use a flamethrower on the next Zombie Jesus that comes knocking on my FB door.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Questions and Answers
One of the first things a therapist asks you after you've gone over your DSM code, your meds, your hospitalizations and your near misses with death is, "Who is in your support network?" They don't ask you if you have a support network; they just assume that you do.
I hate that question, because before today, I never had an answer. Or maybe I never had an acceptable answer. Or maybe the answer was that I am alone.
For all intents and purposes, I grew up an only child. I'm the only child my parents had when they were together, and I am much older than my brothers who were born when my parents found other spouses. I consider my half-brothers my whole brothers, and emotionally, there is no distinction. I could not love them more than I do. But I am 12, 15, and 16 years older than they are, and the only one I lived with, the youngest, was barely two years old when I moved out.
I grew up in an apartment building that didn't allow children. Somehow my mother convinced the landlord or whomever that I wouldn't be a problem. It's hard to grow up in a large building without playmates, so I would roam the neighborhood looking for other kids. Problem was, we lived right off a college campus, so there weren't too many children my age living in that area.
I searched and searched and sometimes I would find playmates, the children of grad students, who would eventually move away once their parents graduated. I made friends at school, but they lived too far away from my home for me to play with them in the afternoon. At some age, I just kind of gave up. So, I learned to be alone.
I learned to live inside my own head, and I occupied myself with Nancy Drew until I'd read the series. I memorized poems about war and wrote them out in my left-handed scribble and taped them to my walls. I imagined that I had been born a decade earlier, that I'd been a flower child, a peace protester, a civil rights marcher. I was greatly disappointed when I learned that my parents never marched with Dr. King.
Tangent Alert: When I was about ten, I decided to protest Del Monte foods because they had plantations in South Africa. Somehow I had learned about apartheid, and somewhere I'd seen a picture of someone, probably a union worker on strike, who wore a sandwich board protesting something he considered unjust. I only had one piece of poster board, so I focused on neatly creating a legible sign telling people not to buy Del Monte products. One afternoon I picketed the entrance to my apartment building imploring people not to buy Del Monte products. My sign was more of an albatross than a sandwich board, and it kept trying to choke the life out of me when the wind blew, but I was a protest of one for a few hours.
My life has intersected with the lives of so many people since then, but invariably we've lost touch. One of us would move physically or mentally or emotionally, and that was the end.
No one kept me safe when I was a child. I think some of my teachers suspected something was wrong at home, and I think that's why I'd end up in a school's counselor's office from time to time. I didn't know how to verbalize the abuse and abandonment that was warping me, but I knew how to act and hide, and I knew that should I open my mouth about my home life, I would be thrust into a gaping hole of uncertainty that could be worse than the devils I knew.
When a therapist asks me to name the people in my support network, I am reminded that I grew up without one. I grew up without nurturers in my home. It's only through the insight and kindness of some of my teachers that I was ever nurtured at all. Sometimes I tell the therapist that my son is part of my support network, but I try not to lean on him because it's my job to support him. Sometimes I include my father in my support network, although he doesn't understand why I haven't been fixed and continues to do and say cruel things to me. I think it's time to cut him out of my life. I've discussed my mother before.
And then yesterday happened. Somehow, someway, I had a support network. There you were, hidden in plain view, and you changed my life. I'm not stupid, and I supposed I knew you were always there. But hoping or intuiting is one thing; seeing the outpouring of love and hope, having it wash over me like a mikvah, a baptism, a cleansing fire, now that was something. You are a force to be reckoned with, and I won't be fucking with you anytime soon.
I'm sorry I freaked you out, scared you or hurt you. My son has received this heartfelt apology as well. And, well, you were successful. You did it. You changed my mood, and you gave me hope. I have a support network, a damned AWESOME support network, and I am moved and greatful for each and everyone of you (and yes, you, Tommcatt -- while I may not have been receptive to the message, I did understand that what you were saying came from a deep well of love.)
I love you, Dear Darlings.
I hate that question, because before today, I never had an answer. Or maybe I never had an acceptable answer. Or maybe the answer was that I am alone.
For all intents and purposes, I grew up an only child. I'm the only child my parents had when they were together, and I am much older than my brothers who were born when my parents found other spouses. I consider my half-brothers my whole brothers, and emotionally, there is no distinction. I could not love them more than I do. But I am 12, 15, and 16 years older than they are, and the only one I lived with, the youngest, was barely two years old when I moved out.
I grew up in an apartment building that didn't allow children. Somehow my mother convinced the landlord or whomever that I wouldn't be a problem. It's hard to grow up in a large building without playmates, so I would roam the neighborhood looking for other kids. Problem was, we lived right off a college campus, so there weren't too many children my age living in that area.
I searched and searched and sometimes I would find playmates, the children of grad students, who would eventually move away once their parents graduated. I made friends at school, but they lived too far away from my home for me to play with them in the afternoon. At some age, I just kind of gave up. So, I learned to be alone.
I learned to live inside my own head, and I occupied myself with Nancy Drew until I'd read the series. I memorized poems about war and wrote them out in my left-handed scribble and taped them to my walls. I imagined that I had been born a decade earlier, that I'd been a flower child, a peace protester, a civil rights marcher. I was greatly disappointed when I learned that my parents never marched with Dr. King.
Tangent Alert: When I was about ten, I decided to protest Del Monte foods because they had plantations in South Africa. Somehow I had learned about apartheid, and somewhere I'd seen a picture of someone, probably a union worker on strike, who wore a sandwich board protesting something he considered unjust. I only had one piece of poster board, so I focused on neatly creating a legible sign telling people not to buy Del Monte products. One afternoon I picketed the entrance to my apartment building imploring people not to buy Del Monte products. My sign was more of an albatross than a sandwich board, and it kept trying to choke the life out of me when the wind blew, but I was a protest of one for a few hours.
My life has intersected with the lives of so many people since then, but invariably we've lost touch. One of us would move physically or mentally or emotionally, and that was the end.
No one kept me safe when I was a child. I think some of my teachers suspected something was wrong at home, and I think that's why I'd end up in a school's counselor's office from time to time. I didn't know how to verbalize the abuse and abandonment that was warping me, but I knew how to act and hide, and I knew that should I open my mouth about my home life, I would be thrust into a gaping hole of uncertainty that could be worse than the devils I knew.
When a therapist asks me to name the people in my support network, I am reminded that I grew up without one. I grew up without nurturers in my home. It's only through the insight and kindness of some of my teachers that I was ever nurtured at all. Sometimes I tell the therapist that my son is part of my support network, but I try not to lean on him because it's my job to support him. Sometimes I include my father in my support network, although he doesn't understand why I haven't been fixed and continues to do and say cruel things to me. I think it's time to cut him out of my life. I've discussed my mother before.
And then yesterday happened. Somehow, someway, I had a support network. There you were, hidden in plain view, and you changed my life. I'm not stupid, and I supposed I knew you were always there. But hoping or intuiting is one thing; seeing the outpouring of love and hope, having it wash over me like a mikvah, a baptism, a cleansing fire, now that was something. You are a force to be reckoned with, and I won't be fucking with you anytime soon.
I'm sorry I freaked you out, scared you or hurt you. My son has received this heartfelt apology as well. And, well, you were successful. You did it. You changed my mood, and you gave me hope. I have a support network, a damned AWESOME support network, and I am moved and greatful for each and everyone of you (and yes, you, Tommcatt -- while I may not have been receptive to the message, I did understand that what you were saying came from a deep well of love.)
I love you, Dear Darlings.
Monday, October 5, 2009
Respect for Suicide
Dear Son, Dad, Mom, Brothers, Friends (real and imagined) and Extended Family,
I'd like to say goodbye. I'd like to tell you how much I love you, and I'd like to explain a decision I've made that will make no sense to you. Maybe this will help.
I am tired. If I were dying of some dread disease, if I were terminally ill, you'd tell me it's okay to let go. I've seen it plenty of times on TV (so it must be true!) where people are given permission to stop clinging onto life by the ones they want to hurt the least. Pretend I'm terminally ill for a moment, because even though I seem healthy, I'm not. Even though it seems that the sun will shine tomorrow and I will find new-found strength and the will to power through, I might not. I am severely mentally ill, and I am no longer making progress. Even if I were to enter a temporary remission, eventually I'd be back at this same place and in this same pain. Hell, the pain could be worse. I don't want any more false hope caused by anxiously waiting for The Next Big Thing to come through Big Pharma's pipeline.
In the past, I had hope and faith during the hospitalizations and med switches and tweaking, during that time I waited for science to kick start my brain, or maybe my brain would heal itself, and, well none of those things have occurred. Hope and faith were unwarranted. I've been more than patient and hopeful, and I've tried really, really hard to get it together. I've tried to be gainfully employed. I've tried to raise my son well, and he is a better person than I ever could imagine. I am so proud of him. Score one for me, and score a bazillion for him.
And he wants me to be around as long as possible. I get it. I want him to be around as long as possible, and I don't want my parents to die either. But we all die.
Yes, I'm depressed and I'm lucid and even rational. Yes, I'm rational. I've decided that I'd prefer the expected and hypothesized endorphin dump that accompanies death, and I'd like that to be my final memory. On my own terms and in my own way.
So, look. I'm not weak. I'm not taking the easy way out. I'm not being selfish. If anything, after the initial shock and pain have subsided some, I will be less of a burden to those who love me.
Until you have had an unquiet mind that cannot be silenced through drugs, meditation, forced happy thoughts, until then, you have no idea of the hell that is bipolar disorder, major depressive disorder and PTSD. Yes, I know that the relief I seek won't give me a feeling of relief as there are no such thing as feelings once you're dead. I don't believe in heaven, and I don't believe in hell. To me, this is it. I won't see you again or hear your sweet voice, and if I were capable of missing that, I would. The thought of missing the things you've done just by be being, well, that makes me sad, and I'm sorry that I will not experience your uniqueness and kindness and funny, yet crazymaking, quirkiness. It would be nice to see how our lives play out.
No, this is not a cry for help, but it is an appeal to make amends, to say good bye, and to tell you I love you very, very, so very much, and this is not your fault. There is nothing you could have done, and honestly, I've lived much longer than I planned/hoped/dreamed.
I don't have a date set, and I don't have a completed plan (I'd rather my son not find my body). But this is what I am going to do. Eventually. I guess my point is that life is not always the best choice, and I want you to understand why people choose that sometimes life is too much, unwanted and unwarranted.
I'll be around for another day or two. I hope to connect with you before then.
I'd like to say goodbye. I'd like to tell you how much I love you, and I'd like to explain a decision I've made that will make no sense to you. Maybe this will help.
I am tired. If I were dying of some dread disease, if I were terminally ill, you'd tell me it's okay to let go. I've seen it plenty of times on TV (so it must be true!) where people are given permission to stop clinging onto life by the ones they want to hurt the least. Pretend I'm terminally ill for a moment, because even though I seem healthy, I'm not. Even though it seems that the sun will shine tomorrow and I will find new-found strength and the will to power through, I might not. I am severely mentally ill, and I am no longer making progress. Even if I were to enter a temporary remission, eventually I'd be back at this same place and in this same pain. Hell, the pain could be worse. I don't want any more false hope caused by anxiously waiting for The Next Big Thing to come through Big Pharma's pipeline.
In the past, I had hope and faith during the hospitalizations and med switches and tweaking, during that time I waited for science to kick start my brain, or maybe my brain would heal itself, and, well none of those things have occurred. Hope and faith were unwarranted. I've been more than patient and hopeful, and I've tried really, really hard to get it together. I've tried to be gainfully employed. I've tried to raise my son well, and he is a better person than I ever could imagine. I am so proud of him. Score one for me, and score a bazillion for him.
And he wants me to be around as long as possible. I get it. I want him to be around as long as possible, and I don't want my parents to die either. But we all die.
Yes, I'm depressed and I'm lucid and even rational. Yes, I'm rational. I've decided that I'd prefer the expected and hypothesized endorphin dump that accompanies death, and I'd like that to be my final memory. On my own terms and in my own way.
So, look. I'm not weak. I'm not taking the easy way out. I'm not being selfish. If anything, after the initial shock and pain have subsided some, I will be less of a burden to those who love me.
Until you have had an unquiet mind that cannot be silenced through drugs, meditation, forced happy thoughts, until then, you have no idea of the hell that is bipolar disorder, major depressive disorder and PTSD. Yes, I know that the relief I seek won't give me a feeling of relief as there are no such thing as feelings once you're dead. I don't believe in heaven, and I don't believe in hell. To me, this is it. I won't see you again or hear your sweet voice, and if I were capable of missing that, I would. The thought of missing the things you've done just by be being, well, that makes me sad, and I'm sorry that I will not experience your uniqueness and kindness and funny, yet crazymaking, quirkiness. It would be nice to see how our lives play out.
No, this is not a cry for help, but it is an appeal to make amends, to say good bye, and to tell you I love you very, very, so very much, and this is not your fault. There is nothing you could have done, and honestly, I've lived much longer than I planned/hoped/dreamed.
I don't have a date set, and I don't have a completed plan (I'd rather my son not find my body). But this is what I am going to do. Eventually. I guess my point is that life is not always the best choice, and I want you to understand why people choose that sometimes life is too much, unwanted and unwarranted.
I'll be around for another day or two. I hope to connect with you before then.
Friday, September 25, 2009
The Bipolar Disorder Rears Its Ugly Head Again
When you've been diagnosed with bipolar disorder, when you finally accept that your brain is faulty, you no longer know if a mood is real or if it's just part of your condition.
Take this moment in time, for example. I'm sad. Now, am I really sad, or am I experiencing a mood swing that's just the result of my brain chemistry being out of whack? I don't know. I suppose that the thing of utmost importance, the thing I have to accept and own, is that right now I am sad. Period. That's my reality, and that's the frame through which I'm seeing the world right now. No big deal, right? Everyone is sad from time to time, mood disorder or not.
BUT
When I'm sad, or happy for that matter, I have to examine my mood. I can't simply experience it knowing that it will eventually pass because an out of whack mood could be a sign of greater problems and of some really shitty stuff to come. So, I try to step out of myself, I try to ignore the mood, and I try to approach it like an issue-spotting exam. IRAC for exams, CRAC for the bar, right? Let's IRAC it.
Issue: I am sad.
Rule: External forces or internal wackadoo brain chemistry could be causing this mood.
Analysis of external forces:
1. Has anything happened recently that could make me sad?
a. My aunt died within the past month. (Even though I didn't like her that much, the toll on my family and the concomitant thoughts of my own death, my loved ones' deaths, etc. could make me sad.)
1) The fact that I didn't like her and don't feel guilt could be making me feel guilty.
b. I'm having problems at work.
c. I'm having problems paying my bills.
d. I'm struggling to get my child back into school:
1) We don't have the money.
2) He shows fleeting signs of initiative which quickly fizzle.
3) I will probably have to sue his father who is legally bound to help pay our son's tuition and upkeep.
a) His father missed yet another birthday without even a call to our son.
e. The political climate and tenor of political discourse distresses me.
f. I'm scheduled for routine surgery, yet I'm a little wigged out about the whole thing and about how my body is selling me out. Aging sucks.
Analysis of internal fucked up brain chemistry:
1. Are my meds working?
a. I'm sleeping pretty well at night (sleep protection helps keep mania at bay).
b. Whom am I kidding? The antipyschotic sucks. It sucks so bad I haven't taken it for weeks, maybe a month. It's not efficacious, and the side effects are horrific. Problem is, I've been on every single antipsychotic and mood stabilizer on the market, and I haven't responded well to any of them. (Cross post the fact that failure on yet another drug could be an external factor that is making me sad.)
BUT
c. The antidepressant rocks, and I've been taking that regularly. (Cross post the fact that I'm wary that the antidepressant alone could slingshot me into a hypomania as an external factor that could be making me sad.)
d. Although I've had some fleeting panic attacks, the benzo seems to be working well. I built up a tolerance at one point and had to have my dose increased, but I've been on the same dose for several months, and it still seems to be holding up to the test of time. Yeah, I'm probably addicted, but the Howling Fantods have been kept at bay. For now. (Cross post the fact that I'm anxiously awaiting the time this drug no longer works as an external factor that could be making me sad.)
Conclusion:
There's enough going on externally that I might not be slipping into a depression as I fear, and this mood might be true sadness. The antidepressant is still rocking, and, if anything, I should be bouncing off the walls and not mired in the doldrums because I quit that bullshit antipsychotic.
I am sad. I have every reason to be sad. I think I'll let myself cry.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Ugh
I have to go to a funeral tomorrow, and I'm procrastinating. I should be asleep so I can be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed tomorrow, so I can feign sadness.I was close to this relative by degree but not by emotion, and I literally feel nothing. If anything, I feel slightly annoyed and bothered and may be a tad bit guilty.
Okay, really -- I don't feel guilty at all. I have no fond memories of this person, and even when this person went out of their way to reach out to me after they were jerkish, I felt repulsion and annoyance.
The worst part of being an adult, the thing I struggle with most, is the doing of things that I don't want to do. I don't want to do this. I don't want to sit around with family I don't like, that don't like me, and I'd much rather do something else I hate -- work.
Plus funerals always remind me of mortality, and I really hate that deal. I wish someone could write me a note and relieve me of obligations, duties and responsibilities. A Get out of Death Free card would be nice as well.
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