Puffy Eyes

My suitcase is packed, but for now, I’m staying put.

I ended up expressing my views to a number of family members who not surprisingly all make excuses for their lack of support during those early years after mom died. I don’t let them off easy and continue to hammer home my point. This is met with some resistance – apparently I need to just let it all go, but I’ll have none of it. Not until I get it all out. God damn it. I will be heard.

Through all of it, I cry and my eyes not surprisingly are now puffy.

I should admit that I thought of calling Basherter. I wanted to hear his comforting voice to help calm me and reassure me that everything was going to be ok. But I resisted the urge because as much as he would listen and be reassuringly sympathetic, I can’t afford to become more emotionally attached.

So I read more of The Great Railway Bazaar by Paul Theroux which I had started on the flight from London. It’s a travel journal about Paul’s epic train journey from London through Europe and much of Asia during the mid 1970s.

This helps me escape my troubles for the most part.

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