All stories begin with a dash of truth
The interesting thing about becoming older is seeing your family, friends, acquaintances, exes, etc. die and realizing you can now tell the stories involving them that you kept to yourself. Good manners (or fear) keeps you from talking idly about someone, but now that they are dead, well……..now, it just becomes an after-dinner verbal mint. Refreshing.
I used to hold back the truth that might hurt my family members, but then I went home to visit and started to find out some of the blatant LIES they told about me. I don’t tell other people, I tell them to their faces. Difficult with my brother because his “truth” changes from moment to moment. He was pretty shocked when he laid into me about me lying and I produced a letter written in his hand. It was nothing more than a conversation starter, but my brother …
I had a niece I hardly knew who would keep telling me how all her friends “hate” me. Odd. Then about ten years she told me how I abused her as a child. That was the last straw. I pointed out if would have been difficult as I only saw her a handful of times in my life and I lived in other parts of the country, in Europe, in Australia … I must have really long arms. Then I told her to seek professional help and never speak to me again.
I guess saying it to them while they are alive is cathartic.
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