Slip

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?

Maybe.

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