him."
Sorry, my allotment of characters for the title was just shy of the quote length. This is Macbeth, Act IV scene 1, by William Shakespeare. The conjured apparitions are prophesizing Macbeth's doom, but in a way so he thinks, "What me worry?"
I think of it every time I have lots of branches and other yard waste stacked up at the curb. I tried to explain it to my niece (who was dragging the branches my brother cut to the curb (wow, that's a crap sentence structure)), but she hasn't read Macbeth yet so I just sounded crazy babbling about trees attacking the bad king. Hopefully her high school has them read Macbeth at some point and not the histories which require so much historical context relating to the War of the Roses and its fallout (that word was "outfall" in my head and I knew it wasn't correct but I couldn't get it turned around right for the longest time).
All of that was what I wanted to post yesterday, but then kept forgetting what I planned to write. There is no clever wordplay. I blame the brain fug. (Ohemgee I just had to look up fug because I was suddenly paranoid it meant something rather rude and was inappropriate for mixed company. It doesn't and I didn't see it in urban dictionary, so feel free to make up your own hepcat street definition.)
I wanted to thank y'all for being here. For listening (well, reading). For hearing (seeing?) me. I actually feel like I'm discarding a lot of my baggage after I post it. I think this is the first forum where I've actually felt like I could get it all out -- without someone telling me I don't really understand abuse and have no reason to complain because they had it so much worse, or that it didn't happen, or it happened but not the way I remember it, or that they don't want to remember it so I can't talk about it, or that it was all a long time ago and harping on it won't make it better. Thank you for just letting me say my piece. It is helping. I can feel old issues losing some of their potency.
Finally.
And I've never felt that before when trying to talk through things, not even in counseling as a child. Especially not then, because it was obvious to me even as a child that the counseling was just to fulfill some bs adult agenda. No one really cared about the kid's perspective; they just wanted her to quit acting out (my panic attacks).
And if I can ditch this trash inside of me, maybe I can teach myself to drop the trash sooner, maybe even not pick up the trash to start with. Which sounds like I'm littering, but it's emotional litter that (hopefully) spontaneously combusts when it hits the air. That's my goal now. And you're helping me achieve it. Emotional littering healing us all with cleansing non-literal fire.
Or maybe not that last part.
p.s. We're extra short-staffed at work this week. Again. So I'm up front with the people 7-8 hours a day. My brain has gone long past fried into, I dunno, grilled, baked, and charbroiled. The director is buying lunch for whatever staff we've got tomorrow. But I can't even get excited for free pizza.
Hint of lime chips are the only thing keeping me from standing out in my underwear in the back and just screaming. Well, hint of lime chips and exhaustion.
A boy about six or seven hugged me today because I helped him find the Minecraft guide he needed. Half of my brain was, “Oh what a nice child,” and half was, “ew get it off me get it off getitoff.” And I felt guilty for thinking that.
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