Mar. 26th, 2017

spikethemuffin: (Gardening)
[EDITED because I got the title of the flaming book wrong. Corrected in the edit.]

First, Being Mortal is decent. Surprisingly, it is a light read, and (unsurprisingly) heavily biased in favor of the end-of-life care and comfort and honesty, rather than extreme measures and dangling false hopes (as you might guess, I lean very heavily in this direction myself).

I was thinking this entry was going to be about my ideas of what I wanted for my end-of-life or severe-illness care. I wanted to say that I thought my reasonable formula for deciding on extreme measures to save my life would be: $25k of medical bills to me or my estate per year of half-life: that is, if there is a 50% chance that aggressive treatment would get me recovered and living a full, working-at-capacity life for four years, I would be willing to pay the deductibles on $100,000, but one could hardly call it fair if the insurance company had to shell out more than that, because I am no-one's essential loved one, caregiver, community leader, or great artist, so it's fair to boil my value to society down to just my salary potential.

Then... wow. It hit me. I don't have any value to anyone beyond the, "ugh, time to hire and train another employee," eyeroll that my employer would give. My daughter is unquestionably better off with me as a closed chapter. My parents would be sad (my dad would be sad. My mom would shrug and sigh about sunk costs.), but I would leave no hole in their lives. One of my siblings might miss me; then again, he might not... my sisters don't talk to me. Bill might miss me, or he might not even notice or even welcome the time back from our weekly phone calls. Erich would be sad, but only if he realized the package of birthday goodies I was saving would not be making it this year. No-one would think or know to tell Garrett, Katie, or Spyder. I'm sure there are those who would gnash their teeth and rend their garments if they heard, but most of them are the sort of people who change their personal hero to whichever celebrity has died in the past fortnight. Miz Ginger would mine it for FB likes, Roland would use it as an excuse to make his female friends pet him and praise him and harness up the Emotionalerarbeitwagen and drink himself into convulsions...

(Ten years ago, I would have had hundreds of people who would have been very vexed indeed... but I think I died to them when... well, never mind. And, later in my personal timeline, being without Facebook is incredibly kind to my life, but not its potential end.)

I... wow.

What do you do when you're nothing but a call center clerk and a bad example?

What do you do, if you're not sure you deserve to be more?
spikethemuffin: (Gardening)
From a recent entry: "...my then-boyfriend decided that cheating was okay if your girlfriend is [me]."

I respond (to me): No, brainweasels. I reject that, even though it slipped through my brain and out of my fingers onto this blog when I wasn't even looking. X cheated because we were in a bad relationship and he wanted out, but he couldn't figure a way out without hurting his self-image, and a beautiful, intelligent, and self-sufficient woman wanted to be his girlfriend, at a time when he was hearing his dearest friends say I was none of these things (and, since we are being painfully honest, I don't think that's what they were saying, as not only was I easy on the eyes and above-average in intelligence, but having met X's friends, I refuse to believe they were so empty as to not be able to recognize that. I think when they said, "You could do way better," the sentences before that were probably, "You are unhappy and in a relationship with a person whom you refer to as 'disgusting,' 'terrible,' and 'Fatty McPhat-Fat,' and your body language whenever she appears is, 'I hate this person.' You have options. Gorgeous, stopping-just-short-of-humping-your-leg, professional-model-putting-herself-through-private-college-at-the-age-of-fifteen options.")

My point is: no matter what I tell myself, no-one deserves the pain of infidelity. No, not even me. Also, that no-one deserves to be in a relationship so bad that infidelity looks like an attractive option.

I am sorry, dearest self, for carrying around that energy-sapping lump of hate for so long. I must have been hard. I love you (me? I want to be clear that I am talking to myself and not sending veiled messages of regard to others, yet when I do talk to myself, I use the second person, and I am so grateful not to use a language where I have to choose to address myself informally or not...), and I want to do better than nurturing ideas that poison my heart.

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