My brother and I had a conversation once about "When did YOU realize that not all parents treat their kids like inconveniences at best and saboteurs at worst?"

I think I was almost 40 when I realized that my grandmother was mean to me not because I deserved it, but because she resented my presence, being a little kid in her house when she didn't want to be a parent/caretaker anymore.

Steph, I don't mean to interrupt, but my mother optimistically decided she could take Tylenol instead of Percocet today. Now she thinks she'll want Percocet tonight. If she took 1300mg of Tylenol around 5PM, and two Percocet have 650mg of acetaminophen, I think she should be okay to take the Percocet around 11.

Does that sound good to you, or are we going to manage to blow out her liver?

The thing is, for the most part, my parents were wonderful. They supported my weirdness and encouraged me to be the freaky little kid I was. I will be forever thankful to whatever PTB that I got my dad, and I still offer to loan him to my friends who need a good, supportive parent.

But, in 20/20 hindsight, my mom was broken in a lot of ways, and somewhere in my kid brain I decided that if I just tried hard enough, I could make her happy and whole. And healthy, because there was all the baggage of the leukemia tied up in it. (And the avoiding bills, and the hoarding, and the teaching me how to hide bills from my dad and how to dodge collection agency phone calls and and and.)

So, yeah. I'll just hug all of you. And then I'll go hug my oldest two teddy bears, because they came into my life around age 10. [link]

Does that sound good to you, or are we going to manage to blow out her liver?

Oh, 6 hours is a fine interval. Unless she's washing it down with a liter of whiskey (but if she is, her liver is probably fucked anyway). And since she's probably not...

Yeah, 6 hours is totally fine between acetaminophen doses.

As for the question Liese asked earlier about whether the triggers ever go away, or lessen -- for me, I do actually seem to be easing up on the automatic fear response when I break/damage/destroy something, simply as a result of time living with a person who has a proportionate response to that. When I broke the milk, my gut was sure I was going to get screamed at, even though Tim doesn't do that, and MY BRAIN KNOWS IT, knew it at the time, but my lizard brain disagreed HARD. That was several years ago.

I ripped a hole in the bathroom windowscreen a couple of weeks ago when I was getting snow off the car roof with a broom. (I didn't gauge how far away I was from the house, and the bathroom storm window wasn't down, and I caught the screen with the broom handle, and...rrrrrip.)

My immediate reaction was, in fact, "Ffffffffuck, I'm going to get in trouble," followed pretty much immediately by "No, you're not. It's cool."

So my automatic response is still fear, but it only lasts a split second and I can remind myself what is true.

AND if my mom overreacts around me now, I just walk away. Because fuck that. (I don't think I do have a fear reaction to her any more -- thank you, therapy -- I think I just cock my head, squint, and think, "I know what you're doing, and it doesn't work any more. Go sell crazy somewhere else.")

They gave me a prescription for percocet at the hospital today, but I haven't taken any. I have taken advil (which I was told to take with the percocet), and so far I'm fine. I'm actually in less pain than I was in with the failed in office procedure.

I still have my 'sick' bunny. A yellow fuzzy creature with a creepily humanoid plastic face. I won't photograph it because it might give you nightmares. It's been through the laundry more than once.

My father threw it out after I had Rubella when I was 6, but I dug it out of the trash.

Speaking of that, I've been using a cloth stuffed squid as a sleep aid (between my arms when I sleep on my side) for the last 15 years.

Two days ago, Cagney ate its face off when I left him out of the crate while I ran errands.

Sigh.

Can't be mad. Can't stop being disappointed.

I crammed the headlike remains into an old sock.

Sigh.

At least it is still usable.

Sigh.

It's totally irreplaceable...handmade...artist no longer around.

Sigh.

Thanks, Steph.

When I was about 10, I accidentally spilled the milk i was pouring into my cereal. My father sent me to my room to "think about what I had done."

???????

I wish I could have gotten a father that's less...Sheldon-y.(And, yes, I still find it hilarious on that show when he stops everything to make people look at sputum, but when he's your dad and he's that selfish, it's really not terrific.And, yes, my dad totally does that.) I wish my stepfather would have buggered off before I'd built a relationship and gotten to love and trust him so that I could just be like "that ASS!" be over it, but on the other hand, it was from that relationship that I learned what dads really *do* besides be a dependable ride to the movies, so I guess that is important.