I was in the living room with my parents when I got a cell call from my sister’s “functioning alcoholic” friend.
I answer it, and it was clear that he didn’t know who I was, even though we have met many times over the last 20 years.
“I’m her sister,” I said.
Ooops. Not what I should have said, even if it’s what I believe. Did my parents hear that? I can’t tell.
My sister believes that I over process. She’s right, of course. I have to leave all the filters in place to keep myself from slipping like that, have to process past.
I know who I am.
A week ago tonight, I didn’t have to hide it. It was easier, at least for me. It was truer, closer to my heart.
But not for them, you know.
Do I get up tomorrow, get dressed and go to church?