The Spectrum of Bitterness -- part four

"The last time I saw Richard was Detroit in '68 and he told me. . . "

                                                                           Joni Mitchell

Last night I spent about three hours on a three -way, (don't get your hopes up. . .) cell phone, voice and text message discussion.  A person close to me called.  They were in distress half-way across the country from me.  I spoke and texted with all three members of this debacle, until my wi-fi finally said, "Fuck this." and gave up the ghost.

Among other things, I was told pieces of family history that a person had told another person that were part enhancement, part disremembering , and part hog wash.  I dealt with tears, lies, condemnations, praise, laughter, pleading, drunkenness and despair. This morning I was texted that every thing was hunky dory and they were going to experiment with one of the pieces of advice (Not the one where I said shut the fuck up) and see how that worked out.

I responded, since they were all in search of emotional peace of some sort and none of them had a handy firearm, that the texter should tell one certain member of the triad that I find it very difficult to text while my tears are pouring over the keyboard. I pretty much felt like I was run over by a truck.

It isn't like this same horrible blood-letting drama hasn't unfolded on at least three other ocasions, word for word. No. This was all new, fresh wounds and never before experienced pain and anguish.   Remind me to press record call the next time it happens.

One of the persons, near and dear to me, is very well known to react, or should I say 'lose her shit' over specific issues that this unnamed person does not care to deal with at that moment, which is 99% of the moments in that person's life.  So I am hoping that some of these people will soon learn not to rock that boat, or pull the tail of that tiger, or poke that hornet's nest. Of course I admonished one and all that it would be very difficult work to even reach 50/50 compromises on these hot button issues and they all agreed that they would whole-heartedly make that effort. Again.

I am thinking of ordering a t-shirt that says, "I am not Ann Landers."  but no one knows who that is anymore.  I am a rather socially solitary person and I cannot figure out how I end up in the middle of these things.  After each one of these crises has passed, if I dare say, "So, how's it going" or "So, what's new?" I usually get the "Go away, you meddlesome bitch" sneer.

My brothers were feuding for a good many years.  I felt like a frigging ping-pong ball.  They actually, were they to accept an inquiry, could neither of them remember what the feud was about. The demise of our beloved father caused them to put the conflict aside and be "brothers" again. This, of course, since I am not only the middle child, but also an ignorant female whose life experience with dealing with  aging and dying parents and rest home bills, etc. counts for naught, means the ping- pong table was folded up and put in the crawl space, and this ping-pong ball was immediately relegated to a dusty corner of the "high, high" shelf. And, since I have had many a year to develop certain scars and calouses, I just don't give a shit.  I am just me.

It isn't even reality.  Everything that I experience takes place only in my brain, a beautiful garden where I am very content.  Lots of weeds, but I know how to get rid of them. I am quite capable of generating a colorful alternate history. (Which any of you that wish to, can delve into.  Google me. Cherry pick from the reality and the fiction. Whatever suits you.)

"No man is an island."  That's baloney.  I am an island and if you are on it, be it ever so briefly, it is because I allowed it.

And Richard died, so I don't have to deal with that anymore either.