…that I have far less tolerance for frustration than I did previously. Is it age? Cancer treatments? Neurologic damage? The general mood of the country? Genetics? I can’t say that I can nail it down to one specific thing or event. All I know is, more people than previously feel my verbal wrath.
Today, for instance. Several months ago, I ordered a small bracelet from a Buddhist monastery. Picture the size of that package. Being in a semi-rural area, our mail is delivered at the street, in groups of mailboxes. I received a notice that it was delivered to our box. No package. Contacted the company. They generously sent another. Same message. Still no package. The local Post Office can show the vehicle delivering and scanning the tracking number at my box, with their GPS. My conclusion is that the two packages have been stolen. I posted a warning on the neighborhood Nextdoor discussion list. Suddenly, I am the one at fault, say my neighbors, for not understanding the local postal rules. What I understand is that the Post Office did its job. And so did a thief.
I repeat and repeat and repeat to myself: Don’t feed the trolls. If I were not the daughter of an alcoholic…amend that…falling-down drunk, I would actually act upon the “It must be 5 o’clock somewhere” saying. But I am the daughter of a falling-down drunk. So I skip the booze until there is an occasion when it would be entertaining, not tranquilizing.
Well-meaning family and friends tell me to not watch the news, because it upsets me so. It’s difficult to explain our need for Social Security and Medicare to someone not in our situation. Yet I must not feed the trolls. This frustration/fear I must keep to myself, which only increases its vigor.
And these are the days that I wonder – to myself – why I would ever even consider treating another illness.
These few precious days?