Sometimes in life shit happens. I guess it's how we deal with that shit that makes us who we are.
I'm an asshole.
Actually I'm not an asshole, I'm more of a child. A spoiled brat who wants to quit when they don't get their way.
When I was a kid my cousin and I decided we would take turns riding our bikes around the school building with our eyes closed, relying on the other to direct us which way to turn. About 2 minutes into my ride I felt a huge thud across my chest, flipped in the air and landed flat on my back. I didn't know what hit me. When I opened my eyes, my cousin was standing over me telling me I'd ran into the monkey bars and flipped over. My body hurt. I thought a car ran over me. My bike landed in the grass 10 yards away. Days later my arms still hurt and my chest felt like someone hit me with a brick.
This past weekend I called my oldest child by their name. The name their mother and I had given them at birth. I was quickly yelled at by said child and informed that that is no longer their name.
It hurt me. It felt like the monkey bars all over again, like my eyes had been shut and suddenly I was clotheslined and knocked flat on my back. Three days later it still hurts. And unlike the monkey bars, I'm not sure that this pain will go away. It's not that I'm not supportive, but she was my daughter. My first born, my little girl. And now she's not.
Sent from my iPhone