Crocodile Tears VII

In recent years, I have been using a "Library" analogy, among many others, to work through some the places Hubs and I herstorically spring into brutal tit-for-tat sessions. He is from the upper middle class milk cartons. I am from that world of throw-away kids. We havenae been educated in the same libraries, much less been reading the same books. The analogy still works for the digital world. Digitally, we may have equal to the same libraries, but which of the billions of websites we pause for is still as disparate as our living foundations.

The Lawsuit Lotto which has invaded the grieving of our son and his wife are hitting radically different nerves in our respective personals. Hubs wants to play. Naturally he is appalled that I am calling it, "A Game," but there be the diff between the folks who become lawyers, et al, in the natural course of their lives and those who spend desparate years dreaming of the easy fix to deep-seated problems. Aggressive and gifted story-teller that he is, Hubs has herstorically told my stories while I drift off to somewhere I can recognize myself in the stories being told of my life. In his branch of the family tree, that is a family tradition. His father told all his mother's stories, as well. I often wondered if she recognized herself in his stories of her life, but I didnae ever find the courage to ask. The force of nature busying out in the kitchen never did seem to match the devout dairy maid her husband spoke of, but. . . Who am I to question? ^It^ wasnae mine to sort. The posthumous sorting of the old man's financial records didnae match up, either. There is considerable evidence that she was the financial genius behind his self-touted success. Just a po' lil, self-made rich boy, he was. Ross Perot had nothing on him.

I, too, enjoy the anonymous freedom of hiding my natural forces behind a gifted story-teller. If I had a choice, my tales of child prostitution, et al, wouldnae ever be told. Even here in my heavily psychotheraputed disclosure, I speak anonymously. I'll tear you a new asshole if you try to recruit me for your political or cinematic ambitions. 

I donae care a twit nor a twitter about who hears my story, but the current Lawsuit Lotto is sending me into deep psycoses(pl) and I canae afford to play Tammy Wynette and *just* Stand By My Man. I need honest sorting of my strictly personal living library to deal with the flashbacks, etc. So does Hubs. So do the GKs. Grief is an intensly personal process. Every journey is unique.

Of course Hubs had that lawyer list already prepped among the messy paper stacks on his desk. He claims he hasnae dialed any of the numbers on that list. I am taking him at his word while betting dollars to wishes that he has at least surfed the corresponding web sites. Using the library analogy, I gave him blessings to act on the data from his own library while re-inforcing my insistence that I needed to tell my own stories in this matter. Sorry, love, I cannae give you a fact sheet to incorporate into your presentation. There remains too much data which is still unavailable.

I havenae shared much of the Lawsuit Lotto games which have rolled down my branch of the family tree in the 39 years we have been married. I mostly kept that sharing to my therapy network, both HIPAA protected and anonymous. Herstorically, Lawsuit Lotto antics from my birth family have been ALL posturing on the part of the attacking family member. Ply therapy support adage here. Do not engage a psychosis. Let the madness run its course. ^It^ will change with the next Twitter stream. The counselor who came on board with our now departed son's first religious psychosis in college helped him understand that premise far better than I ever have. Maybe. He is still reflex quick with the torque wrenches through the ear canals. His intentions are pure, butttttaaaa. . . Get your fucking wrenches out of my ear, Honey Bunch. NOW! ! ! Negotiation isnae my strong suit. Never has been.

As of last night's peaceful bedtime, Hubs was actually listening to my real-time tales from the courts of lawsuit lotto and respecting my drive to do nothing. He was still reviewing the plethora of counsel on how to protect himself from the ? ? ? Insert descriptive of preference here. There isnae a shortage of descriptives available, both on and off-line.

And still ^it^ hurts like a grandfather fuck. . . Processing. . . Sorting. . .

The current time warp is intense. Has it *already* or has it *only* been a month since the two fatality car accident? Ouch, either way.