Self-Loathing

A yaddah that was on the blah plate when the 3 death year launched its avalanche into my life was my 63rd birthday. A significant event in retirement planning. I was approaching the planning through the VA channels. My VA connections always have been politically sensetive to discuss with the love of my life. Our tit for tat sessions over the subjects have been brutal. At the time his father started his departing health crisis, my attempts to discuss my retirement planning werenae going well. The subject always turned to my resistance to attending his corporate retirement planning seminars with the speed of an erection. Does it really have to be either/or? Can't we have both? Can I at least finish telling you about the VA options?

Nothing new here. ^It^ is one of the most recurrent tit for tat skirmishes in our 38 years together. Culturally, it is traditional. The VA planning series slid passively beneath the family upheaval of his father's death and the isolated psychotic upheavals of my estranged brother and mother. Those VA options didnae feel worth the trouble of digging out from under the wreckage and the numbers are, indeed, pale next to Hubby's impressive corporate retirement planning and family inheritance. Shoot. . . Two deaths on my branch of the family tree didnae even come close to matching the impact of his father's death. Not even a fair comparison.

My 65th birthday is less than 2 months away. I have been attempting to understand the penalty threats I am receiving from the Social Security Administration, review my VA options and even considering whether it is time to apply for my SS pension. All very modest sums compared to the impressive numbers in Hubby's portfolio. I feel like a feeble freak flower in the shade of a mighty oak. Who am I kidding to even bring ^it^ up? Still. . . ^It^ niggles. Doesn't seem like ^it^ should be a taboo topic, either. Small steps, big faith and lots of prayer.

This is day three of the most brutal tit for tat skirmish Hubby and I have had since my mother's funeral in April, 2017. Today finds me self-loathing and ready to go with whatever compliance will change the subject. Maybe ^it^ does need to be a taboo topic. Just bring me my pumps and pearls, dear.

Hubs desperately wants me on Social Security. I think. It is hard to know which detail counts in a tit for tat skirmish. Several of my most trusted therapy supporters have agreed that it is a good idea. For now, I have decided to focus on simple compliance with the bureaucratic shuffle. Do "simple" and "bureaucracy" belong in the same sentence?

I'm a lucky young lady who is feeling a bit shady in the shadows of a truly remarkable man.

I have been trying to remember if anybody ever called me "Young Lady" before my 50th birthday.