Slight jog to the left...

Here I am, in therapy again, working on the core wounds that are still festering within, moved closer to the surface now that my father has gone to the big golf tournament in the sky and left me with my mother, the wicked witch of west county.  Old stories I told myself, about being discounted because I was female, lost child in a family where each parent had their favored son, blah, blah, blah, turned out to be TRUE.  Ouch.  And yes, I am over the hill and cruising toward 69 years of age, and still have that wounded little girl to soothe and comfort.  And settle down.  Because she's PISSED.  Something has to change.  Probably it is me.  So, there I am, all embroiled in my scapegoatism and my mother's narcissistic personality disorder and wham, I am flat on my back with a wretched cold.  Nothing better to take your mind off your difficulties than a doozy of a cold, that's for sure.  And it was a whizbang, for sure.  Started with a raw throat and painful tight cough.  One week later, I have passed the just-shoot-me-phase and am now in the will-this-ever-end phase.  Mucinex, I love you.  It loosened everything up and made coughing ever so much more comfortable.  And I am grateful.  Yes, gratitude has sunk to that level.  The good thing:  I spent four days in bed, watching Castle and Mentalist reruns on TNT, read four books, got jumped on by the dogs, slept sitting up, took excellent care of myself.  Gone are the days when I would medicate myself to the eyeballs and muscle through it.  In fact, rumors abound that this crap loves to keep coming back.  So, since my duties for the day are over (quick trip to Costco for tomorrow's meeting treats, dogs are fed and aired, just the essentials), I am headed for a little nappy-poo, just me and the poopies.  Retirement, it doesn't suck.  Angst will be back soon.