Fight, Flight, Die

“Oh, you’re great.  You sacrifice so much,” my father told me, his words dripping with sarcasm.

I am in a full autonomic fight or flight reaction around my sister these days.

But I resist it to do what is required, errands that involve driving her around and such.

It feels like I am being beaten, but I do it.

I finished the ride and came downstairs to my bed and computer to burn it off.

My father asked what happened.

“She is here.  I did the work,” I told him

“Oh, you’re great.  You sacrifice so much,” my father told me, his words dripping with sarcasm.

My mother hits her head when she feels mushy.  She assumes I hit my fead for the same reasons.

No.

I hit my head for discipline, to silence my feelings and do what is required.  I hit my head for focus, for denial.

My father assumes that I am angry at my sister because of pique, because I am holding a grudge.

The idea that it hurts escapes him.

“Oh, you’re great.  You sacrifice so much,” my father told me, his words dripping with sarcasm.

I bust hump and it means nothing, only that I am too overwrought, hold on.

And it kills me.

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