Processing III

Yesterday was rough. Hubs has been ball-hogging again. Business as usual for him. His name for this particular ^it^ is, "Busying Out." His primary coping mechanism during hard times is putting on his Super Cape and rescuing the world from itself. Funeral arrangements for his son have him as busy as a Control Freak on a Mission to La La Land. Meanwhile, the incompetant nincompoops he is thinking for are left feeling like they need permission to have hearts and minds of their own. Works in progress. . .

I blew up at him fairly early yesterday. I am proud of us both for how well we contained the explosion without repressing the underlying emotions. Since busying out is his primary repression tool, the confrontation blew away his deeply conditioned drive to repress any and all emotions.

Funeral services arenae usual on my branch of the family tree. We cremate the bodies and process our grief privately. Perhaps I should say *They* cremate bodies. The family estrangement on my branch of the family tree has provided me much insulation from those gory details. Hubby's branch is big on the preplanned funeral arrangements. They leave no detail to chance. They carry their funeral preferance cards to Saint Peter's Gate with expectations that God, Herself, will feel according to the preferences on that preplanned funeral form. So far, we havenae had to find the balance between us on this score. This is the first death in the family we created together.

My heart read of the two older grieving orphans in my care is that they need a closure which will grant them access to both branches of their own family tree. I still donae know the inside info on why CPS removed them from the maternal grandparent home to here, but there isnae a doubt in my mind that the sudden shock of the move is still a sore spot for them. Now that Mommy is gone, we feel a compulsive drive to find ways to nurture that bond as far as possible. The other grandparents are Housing Project Lawyers who look to State coffers to buy toilet paper. I suspect that, like the welfare champs in my own family tree, they wipe their asses with newspapers on a regular basis. No, I don't really want to know for certain. Ignorance is bliss. One of the points on which I blew up on Hubby is his Ivy League commentary over Welfare Economics. "That is my family illness, Love. You are not wrong but please respect it is a major sore spot in my own life. Please know your commentary is a ghoulish dance in my most tender wounds." Indeed, indeed, I can't seem to shake the feeling that my son married my mother, all the way from the unavailability of chronic clinical depression to the morbid obesity. PTSD Hell for my broken brain, to be certain. I love ya baby, but I don't give a flying fuck how ^it^ looks to you. I need a pro psych team to look at my facts, at all. Please stop wiggling your educated fingers in my most tender wounds.

After the blow-up, Hubby's busying out netted an arrangement with a randomly chosen funeral home for the in-laws to arrange the funeral at our expense. Limits on the budget, of course. No, my welfare economists, you havenae found the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. We are *simply* doing what needs to be done. Perhaps one day I will feel safe to share the dimples of my simples with you, but for now, let's keep the focus on a meaningful closure for the 3 orphans we all care about. Our only plea is that the two of them move through this process together with a single headstone. I vote the headstone read, "Devoted Spouses. Cherished Parents. Beloved Family."

Still calling G.O.D. by Her acronym. WHY YOU DO THESE THINGS YOU Gnarly Old Dickhead?!?!?!? NFF!!!!!!!!!!!!!!