Tiny little scissors…

I had a panic attack tonight. I’m thinking the combo of herb and Hagen Daes curtailed a lot of it. My heart is still racing. I’m irritable. But , I can breathe. That is enough.

I kept seeing these today. The bag was on the counter and I didn’t really look at them. They are my mothers ” don’t touch” scissors. When I was young she has many pairs. They were all marked with their purpose. Sewing, cutting , gardening, all known as untouchable.

Rathe would come if one was missing. For someone as completely disorganized as her , scissors were like gold.

My mom is crafty. She can paint , draw , sew , and decorate. All shiny flimsy things to someone as concrete as myself. My handwriting looks like a serial killer or doctor… I’m in the medical field so that is ok. I have one crafty talent; I can cook my ass off. That was learned by default as my brother and I were neglected and I didn’t have a choice. I read cookbooks at 10 to try to feed him. We survived, though never thrived.

As mom gets closer to death , I’m finding these things all over the house. Things that have annoyed me most of my life are suddenly precious. I wonder how if hoarders start like this. Flimsy faded recipes for jello she couldn’t make , letters to people in her beautiful handwriting that thankfully, my daughters got from her. J has my handwriting. Pictures she’s painted over the years remain.

Every. Single. Thing. As seen on TV clutters and pack my drawers. . Everything was ( is ) special and interesting to her. I don’t have a single picture on the wall .. though in my defense, I’ve only lived in this house 19 years. Decorating always reminded me of my childhood and I try to avoid that. Home was a place of appearances, not feelings. As if you fancy something up enough, you’d be enough. It didn’t work that way.

My parents are Adoptees and they brought their baggage with them. Then , they inflicted it on my brother and me. It wasn’t their fault. They didn’t know. Easy to say now at past 50.

I’ve been up all night trying , as usual , to find any value in me. Still elusive. So , I’ll sit on the coach with a pounding head and see my therapist in a few hours to tell her I’m going to be without insurance soon. I’m sure it will go well. My mind is racing. I need to order all of my meds now. I need to pay bills with Monopoly money. I need a vacation. Or , a nice stay in the hospital.

I’ll leave you with this ; When did having a nervous breakdown go out of vogue ? Gone are the days you could fall apart and someone would catch you.

Love to all. I’m still here. I have a pretty good record of surviving the unserviceable.

This is Sarge. My constant. I love him. A Belgian Malinois. He’s snoring in my lap.

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