by Laura
Charity's depression is suffocating us. She feels hopeless and sees no point in doing anything about it. The effect on the system is pervasive and crippling. We're physically ill.
It's difficult enough dealing with menopause, family obligations, commuting, job stress, maintaining a home, and all the other pressures of outside life. Charity's behavior and choices only make all of this worse.
Yes, she has choices, but she refuses to accept that she does. She wants some magical f*cking caretaker to do it all for her so she can remain an infant for all eternity. Well, it ain't happening. We had a lousy f*cking childhood. Get over it and move on. We all have to move forward whether we like it or not. You're no special case.
And no, I don't care how unforgiving I sound. I'm not the one causing the problem here. I don't want to be the one to have to fix it, but I couldn't fix it even if I wanted to. And don't get me started on how she as an adult has no business depending on the approval of minors like me.
Somewhere deep inside, some introjected voice from the past is having a field day f*cking with Charity's head. Maybe a whole f*cking chorus of voices from the past. But even if old tapes are at the root of Charity's problem, she's still the one who has the responsibility to work through it all. Not me. Not Allegra. Not Mary. Charity. Charity and only Charity.
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