Worst Christmas Ever

I don’t know a lot, but I know I’ve been cursed in many ways.

On Christmas morning, I overheard my children’s father call them and ask them to chant, ‘Worst Christmas Ever’

I woke up that morning with my body in so much muscular pain, I felt as though I’d been to the gym for hours.
He’s cursed me again.
I’m sick.
I’m annoyed.
I have everything I want in life but the Christmas I’d planned for.
What a dipshit.

I’ve explained it to psychiatrists: there are moments of my life, I replay and I don’t choose what is going to be shown to me, or when. They just intrude my brain whenever they want.

I’ll have a memory come to me for no reason. As I’m in Gelson’s choosing a sourdough bread because my eldest daughter doesn’t eat gluten but will eat a little sourdough; My hand will freeze, I will freeze as a memory comes back to me:

Riding my tricycle home through the slush snow, moon boots. I am rushing home to tell my mother that the neighbor boy inhaled an entire carrot and had to go to the hospital. Behind me, the house of the “Bad Man” fades into the distance. Years ago he’d been in jail and now he was just a recluse who refused to do yard maintenance.