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I had a text conversation the other day and it was testy. With my kid. I’ve noticed almost all of these conversations we have end up that way, provided they last more than five minutes and go beyond the 3 W’s: “Work, weather and Well-gotta-go.” Without fail, I end up offending her. I won’t say it’s without cause, because it’s not, although I don’t see it the same way. But I’ll cope to being hard to take in certain circumstances, and readily identify this as one of ‘em.

And while I wasn’t thrilled about how it worked out, I don’t know of a better way to handle it, either. And honestly, I’m not sure I should try to find one.

Basically, I think it boils down to this: Whenever I’m not mentally and emotionally prepared to hit an issue–well…when it comes up, I don’t know what to say. When I don’t know what to say, I end up saying exactly what I’m thinking, more or less. You see the problem there?

This goes over like the lead-fucking-ballon, as you might imagine. I mean, yes, there’s a filter, but it’s flimsy at this point and it’s a lot more blunt than almost anybody would be comfortable with. (Mercury conjunct Pluto = communcation that stings.) I know that. My mouth can pack a punch, and it’s all the more powerful because it’s true and stripped of decorative, face-saving euphemism. Especially bothersome to someone trying to maintain a goddamned shiny veneer, man. That doesn’t mean anything about what is behind the screen, but a screen is a fucking screen, too.

I mean, it’s not like I have a list’o'bitches sitting by my computer for the next time an IM session starts. I don’t have a chip on my shoulder. But this shit is already in there, you know? It’s in my head. I’ve been seeing my other disappearing/reappearing kid and the holidays are here and it’s triggering all sorts of shit. I mean, I ain’t suffering with it. Don’t have time to suffer, and I’m not a fan anyway. I have learned how to give a shit without giving a shit, you know?

By and large, I think I’ve found my parenting Zen. But it’s not like it doesn’t enter my brain. I care but I don’t dwell, because I just know it ain’t my life. Regardless of how fucked up I may believe something is, it’s not my problem. If i’ve said my piece and they don’t wanna here it, we’ve officially entered the “none-of-my-goddamn-business” zones. And you know what? That’s a pretty cool place to be.

Opinions, however…well, I have plenty of fucking opinions….and I share them readily when the subject comes up. I figured, this is what parenting is to me. You toss it out there and maybe they’ll get something useful out of it and maybe they won’t. Sometimes you’ll be right and sometimes you won’t be, but you give them your best and they can decide what they want to think for themselves.  So annoying or not, blunt or not, painful or not, I’m going to call shit “shit” and I’ ain’t gonna pretend to like the smell of it.

Bullshit makes me feel dirty, you know? It does. I hate crap and it complicates the world, so I don’t support it, quite simply. Don’t add to the sum total of crap in the world! That’s what I say.  Then you can sleep at night peacefully. I protect my integrity that way, beause it’s important to me, and it makes my life happier.

Seriously. Avoiding bullshit makes my life a LOT happier. And if this makes anyone else uncomfortable, they will either deal or move on. This makes sense, too. The people vibrating “honest” energy at a given point will be more likely to want to be around me, and those that don’t will move on and we’ll both be happier for it. When vibrations change, connections change.

I don’t pretend like fucked up shit is okay, plain and fuckin’ simple. I don’t pretend to not see what I see. I don’t feel compelled to say everything on my mind, ok. (And I can hear everybody who knows me quietly thanking God for this perhaps surprising fact under their collective breaths at the moment). A hunk but not all. There’s no point.

But I do feel a responsibilty to be honest, especially if there’s a chance it might make a difference. These are my kids for God’s sakes. Anything less would be selling out to me.

I’ll tell ya: It’s a weird fuckin’ dance, man. It’s just odd. I end up pushing and poking, with those skills that got me dubbed “the Reality Check Queen” from the kids. I make those observations that they may or may not have been aware of consciously, but they don’t want ‘em when they come. I make it hard to deny sometimes. So maybe there’s some sqirming.  Or some lying, or misdirects. Saving face is hard when somebody shines the light on full force, you know?

 I know it’s uncomfortable. Of course I know. I don’t give a fuck, though, not because I lack feeling but because there are other things that are more important here. I mean, I don’t go out of my way to make it uncomfortable, but I don’t try to abate it, either. That’s not my job. I’m going to smack lay the truth out there. I’m not going to spit-shine it up and call it a diamond when it’s a $20 crack rock.

I say, if you don’t like your truth, don’t get pissed at the dealer. Change your truth to something that you don’t feel the need to hide, from yourself or others. But you can’t expect others to collude in your self-delusion. A life with nothing but “yes men” is pretty fucking lonely. It takes massive amounts of energy to maintain veneers. Most others (rightly) won’t bother helping somebody else maintain theirs.

Of course, I’m sure she didn’t leave the convesation with all the conclusions I did, or lots of new, helpful–if somewhat abrasive–insights that will help her break free of her entrenched, self-destructive patterns and live up to her potential.

Nah! Dollars to donuts she just left the conversation thinking she was nice to me and I kept bringing up ulgy shit for no fucking reason at all–i.e. what a bitch I am.

Har!