I talked about being sixteen, about being the only one in the family who gave a shit about College, and having the scholarship I earned all on my own taken away from me by parental decree, because they thought I was a pussy.

Which in a sense I was: I talked about being sixteen and eighteen and twenty and twenty-two and being broken, literally, medically, sexually; how no one wanted to do anything about that elephant in the room, or even acknowledge that it existed.

For reasons I cannot understand to this day, and never will.

About having to finally get that fixed all on my own with no help from inside my lineage.

Then I jump-cut in time fifty years.

To the current fuckery. To the purpose of the engineered call.

To suggestions of promises, and actual promises, made and still not kept.

I … if nothing else … cleared the m’fuckin’ air thoroughly.

Then I slept for most of two days, because saying that all out loud was not easy on my soul.

***

As a result: Nothing has changed. Not one thing; not yet.

There’s been talk of hiring a lawyer. So I went and found the New Mexico Bar Association site and narrowed the search down to four plausible candidates and passed that along.

It’s barking up some highly theoretical tree anyway, instead of doing my life any tangible good.

***

In the end I have no resolution.

I still don’t know whether I should do maintenance on having faith in these unfulfilled promises …

Or whether I should just swallow the whole ball of shit for the shit it well may be, and move on, past it; get on with my fucking life.

That is still the hardest part for me. The stumbling block as we used to say.

The not-knowing which.