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Aversion to Discord

th-1.jpgPermanence is not a quality of harmony.  Can’t understand why I should ever hope for such a thing, yet here I am disappointed again, disagreement having chipped away at momentary bliss.

Must have been born to please; born not with the usual film of childbirth, but with a bluish red hue of guilt – the shame of my conception already emblazoned on my skin.  It’s as if my very breath relies on the contentment of others, and when that is not achievable, I find myself holding it in, afraid of the exhale, as if the release of it will further announce my flawed existence.

Sometimes, I am able to stand outside myself and define my folly – wonder at how gullible I am to believe that it’s all up to me – but there it is, a genetic flaw:  my Achilles’ heel.

It’s my husband who is unhappy at the moment.  He, who has behaved no better than a belligerent child, if I am honest with myself.  He has expressed displeasure at the behaviour of one of my children – now adult – equally as headstrong.  Their mutual discord is inevitable when examined without agenda.  His declaration has sent me spinning, unraveling the exuberance of the weekend, the glow of an otherwise harmonic occasion now extinguished.

th-3We were in bed when he spoke it, and I rolled away from his words, conjuring all sorts of retorts (not spoken) in which he was the villain, and that I had been equally disgruntled by his daughter, and then; consumed by the impossibility of it – the never-ending rancour – I melted into depression.

What is the point of it all, I thought, if we are to have continual discord?

More importantly, how shall I continue to exist in this thin-skinned manner?

There, at the bottom of it all, I see the problem, sprawled like a crumpled toddler face down in a pool of her misspent tears, ignored.  It’s that baby, ill-timed and unwanted; that child, thrust upon half siblings, unwelcome.  She, who absorbed the rejection, storing it in every pore and cell and declaring herself irrelevant, a burden.  She, who vowed to make it up, to prove them all wrong, to demonstrate her worthiness by making everyone happy.  She is the the one weighing me down.

Poor, ignorant child.  There is so much I need to teach her.

th-4

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Categories: family life nonfiction psychology

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V.J. Knutson

Writer, avid reader, former educator, and proud grandmother, currently experiencing life through the lens of ME/CFS. Words are, and always have been, a lifeline. Some of the best adventures, I'm discovering, take place in the imagination.

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