There is the most miniscule drop of English blood...

...in my pedigree. My maternal grandfather was Mr. Finch. He did not allow my American Indian grandmother to call him by his Christian name, James. From all accounts, he was not a nice man, but died early and hopefully his spirit got another whack at being a better person. Or, he was reincarnated as an aye-aye and eats scraped bug guts for a living. But I digress.

I read a lot of English murder mysteries. Just this side of being an Anglophile I suppose. And one of the things I always like is that the English really don't seem to want to bother anyone else with their problems. Granted, my Italian genes make me think they take this a bit too far and should be much more demonstrative in their passions, but still, I admire this stoicism.

I started this yesterday when I was having a really bad day. Now I've had a chance to take a deep breath and regroup. Nothing has vastly improved save my outlook. I'm reminded of the equation I found that made so much sense to me I printed it and posted it where I can see it all the time: E+R=O or Event+Reaction=Outcome. The key factor in the equation is that R, or Reaction, is the only term you can modify. As I often like to say, it is what it is. How I choose to deal with it is the important part.

Part of me does want to share things with people. Reveal scenarios, describe feelings, vent angst-riddled anger...but I am concerned about reactions. I don't really want anyone to say, "Oh, I am so sorry!" or "How horrible!" I guess I just want someone to nod their head in a sort of mute understanding. Just to be able to look in their eyes and know that they get it. I'm not going to lie...having your Mom die sucks and there is really no satisfaction in knowing that she's in a better place...except that you're happy for her and after all...it's about how I react to it, right?