I Can’t Read Your Stories Anymore

You’re killing me

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Photo by Kirill Balobanov on Unsplash

You know the ones. The ones about how perfect your family was and how you all used to have Sunday picnics and go to Church together.

You know the ones. The ones about how your mom and or dad was the best thing in the whole wide fucking world.

The ones where there was so much love in your house all.year.round. and you all were so tight and happy and did everything together and were so supportive of each other.

And how you used to all pile up in the car and go to Aunt Betty and Uncle Jerry’s house to have family dinners and play music and sit around a bonfire and laugh and sing and have a ball.

Ya. Those ones.

Every single time I see the title honoring your parent, I cringe. Actually wait, it’s worse than that. I feel like I got just got punched in the stomach and I want to throw up, not from disgust, but because the blow is bad.

I don’t want to read about how beautiful your family was and how your childhood was the best ever. I really don’t want to fucking hear about it.

I don’t want to hear about how you graduated from nursing with top honors and your parents were so proud of you and had the biggest party in town for you. Good for you.

Your stories are killing me.

But…….I really do want to read them.

Curiosity takes over.

I really want to know and read about what it was like to grow up in a loving environment. I really want to know what a “normal” childhood was like.

I really want to know what a mother/daughter/son or father/daughter/son bond was like. You guys went to the ice cream store and laughed and had fun? Wow.

Dad used to take you fishing?? Shit. That must have been amazing.

Mom taught you how to bake and sew? Geezus! What was that like??

Your parents never raised a hand to hit you?? Holy shit. You mean, you never lived in fear? What was that like?

I really want to feel what it would have been like to have been raised in a loving family and I can kinda feel that in your stories. Kinda. A little.

I feel the love you shared with your family but then immeasurable pain takes over. I want to stay in that happy place in your story with you but it’s so hard. I get halfway through your story and then envy gets in front of me and shouts out ‘Fuck You’.

Fuck you and your happy family. Feel my pain damn you! I need you to feel my pain and stop bragging about how amazing your fucking family was. Shut up!

Sigh. Satan get behind me. That’s not really Iva talking.

But I really love reading about your happy and loving family. I am so glad that you had a good upbringing. I wouldn’t wish my childhood on my worst enemy.

Your stories make me cry. I need you to know that the childhood you had was just a dream for so many of us. We craved it. We longed for it. Desperately. I cry when I read your stories, actually sometimes I sob.

I love your stories. I really do. I try to live vicariously through your stories but I can’t. No matter how hard I try.

Your stories are beautiful. The way you write them and describe your life is beautiful. Your family is beautiful. You are blessed beyond belief and I hope you never forget that.

Part of me doesn’t want to read your stories anymore and then the little girl inside of me tugs at my sleeve and shouts “no, I wanna read this one!!” So we do.

I’m torn. I’m so fucking happy for you, I love your stories, you are so ridiculously blessed and beautiful. My heart swells when I read your stories.

I’m torn. I feel emotions I don’t want to feel. I want you to stop writing. I want you to keep writing. I want you to shut up. I want you to tell me more!!

I want you to know that your beautiful loving family stories, no matter how painful they are to me, touch me in ways I’ve never felt before. I often wonder if others feel like this or is it just me.

So keep telling your stories. I want to read them. I just can’t read them all. ❤

Peace and Love

xo iva xo

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