I think I am going to get drunk and morose tonight
I’ve got a bottle of red wine that I picked up at the liquor store this morning at 7:45 AM.
Yes, you read that right: the closest booze to my house in the middle of nowhere is open before eight o’clock in the morning.
God Bless America
Anyway, I am feeling really sorry for myself tonight and wondering, as many of us have done when it comes to our families, “Why did I think it would be different this time?”
And worse, “Why can’t I get over it?????”
Why do I still need the approval, the kudos?
Why must I continue hoping to be seen, when it’s never going to happen?
Most of the time I can shrug it off. With love, forgiveness, and acceptance, comes peace. But every once in a while, something happens in my world that is so big and fabulous, (and not too left-leaning) that I think to myself, “Oh they can’t help but sit up and take notice now.”
But they don’t. There is just absolutely zero interest in my world. Nada.
Of course, my wonderful mom in interested in plenty of my world – that’s why we’re friends – but no one dares to go near the WHO that I AM.
Because I am foreign to them. To them, the landscape of my home and my soul is a frightening, uninteresting, sagebrush sandpile.
They don’t speak of connection to place. They don’t think of it.
They don’t speak of a lot of things that I do.
I am impolite society.
As a result, no one in my family has ever read anything that I have written unless I’ve specifically sent it to them.
And sometimes, not even then.
They don’t think of me as a writer. Some might not even know that I can write.
And it bugs me.
So I finally get published. In a book. With a cover. With other gifted writers and poets. And my essay is only seven pages long.
And no one has found time to read it.