family, narcissists, religion

‘Tis often a good thing to be childfree…

The featured photo is another I took of a very fragrant bush in our neighborhood, as I walked my “furkid”, Noyzi. Just so you know, it pains me to write “furkid”. He’s my baby, but I don’t think of him in that way. Guess it’s my pragmatic side.

This morning, I decided to write a travel post about our progress in booking our summer vacation. It’s not surprising to me, but traveling in Scandinavia and the surrounding areas is EXPENSIVE. And that’s pretty much what the post is about, along with the hassles of using an American credit card in Europe. I’m not trying to complain, though… I knew it was going to be expensive. We’ve been to Norway, Denmark, and Sweden before. This trip is going to be especially luxe, and it’s going to last for about sixteen days. So yeah, we’re shelling out lots of money, although I found out this morning I could have shelled out a lot less. The price of the cruise we booked last week dropped significantly this week. Such is life.

As Bill and I have gotten older, I’ve found that I have less interest in traveling on a shoestring budget. And though Bill is a lot more tolerant of being uncomfortable, he’s come aboard the luxury train with me. 😉 Seriously, though. No one can ever accuse us of not having the experience of traveling on the cheap. I once spent three days on an Armenian bus to Istanbul. Three days with no showers, no bed, and lots of outside pit stops made less painful with someone else’s vodka. I lived for two years with no hot water and, often, no electricity.

Bill has been to actual war zones. I probably don’t need to say much more about that.

So yes, although we travel more like royalty these days, we definitely punched our budget cards along the way to get to where we are. As long as we can actually afford the travel and aren’t going into debt to do it, I don’t think there’s a problem. One main reason why we can afford such travel is because we don’t own a house, nor do we pay college tuition, or for orthodontia.

And… although Bill has two daughters, they haven’t really been in our lives. That wasn’t our choice. That was a choice their mother made on their behalf, when they were still kids. Bill paid generous child support for years, and that was pretty much the only part of “parenthood” I’ve personally experienced. Since it wasn’t really my money, nor did I have anything to do with the marriage failing, or the ensuing parental alienation campaign, I can barely say it was my experience. Not having children in our lives was a byproduct of an unfortunate decision Bill made years ago, having kids with a very selfish person who loves power and revenge more than she loves her children.

Now… having stated that, I want to make it clear. Bill loves his daughters and certainly doesn’t regret having them. He just would have been better of having them with me, instead of Ex. Because if he’d had his daughters with me, they very likely would have had much better childhoods. At the very least, they’d know their father, and have a less toxic relationship with their mother. As it stands now, my husband’s older daughter is still estranged from him, and his younger daughter, who has chosen to reconnect, is getting to know us both.

My husband’s younger daughter is a very lovely young woman and a fantastic mother. I’m glad I’m getting to know her, especially since I had a very bad first impression. It turns out she’s very much Bill’s daughter, and has his kind disposition. I wish I knew her better. I wish she could have been my daughter. I would have been proud to be her mom. But she’s not my daughter, and I am not her mother.

I always wanted to have children, and expected that I would have them. But having children obviously wasn’t in the cards for me. I’m grateful that I chose not to force the issue by either having children with a person (or people) I didn’t love, or resorting to medical means to have them. I know other people have made different choices. I don’t judge them for their choices. They just weren’t choices that were good ones for me, personally.

Why am I writing about this today? It’s mainly because as I was putting the finishing touches on our vacation, I saw a couple of things on Facebook that set me to thinking. One was a rather offensive meme someone shared. She is someone from my past, who married a man with children. Their mom died a few years ago, so she’s taken over the motherhood role. Today, she shared the below photo, though the children were way beyond babyhood when she married their father.

On the surface, this seems kind of like a sweet, comforting message, until you consider that some mothers are pretty terrible people. And some people who don’t have children are pretty wonderful people. I don’t think it really has much to do with God’s choices. Instead, it has a lot to do with very human choices, some of which are good, and some of which are tragically bad.

Nothing against my friend, who has taken on quite a challenge that involved a big lifestyle adjustment. But I totally disagree with the sentiment shared in the above photo, and I find it kind of triggering. I don’t want to be offensive, though, so I’m writing about how that photo makes me feel here, instead of on Facebook. Maybe she’d be upset that I’m writing this post… but I think I’m showing her more consideration than she’s showing people like me. 😉

I consider Bill’s decision to have children with his ex wife a terrible tragedy, mainly because he’s a loving, warm, nurturing, caring, and generous man, who would have loved to have had the chance to raise his children. Instead, he was replaced by Ex’s third husband, with whom she had more kids. Today, his younger daughter is getting to know the man she was denied the chance to know when she needed him the most. That opportunity to know Bill is a saving grace, but it’s a small comfort. She should have had him in her life the whole time, whether or not I was the one “chosen by God” to be her mother.

The second part of this post is inspired by an article I read on the God page. Lately, God has mostly been sharing “Am I The Asshole” posts, but today there was an article about a woman who went viral on Tik Tok for sharing about why she’s glad she’s “childfree”. I can personally attest to the fact that being “childfree” is a pretty good thing, especially in this era of random shootings. It wasn’t what I planned for myself, but it’s not a bad way to live at all. A lot of people have children so there’s someone to look after them when they’re elderly, but there’s no guarantee that a person’s children will do that for them. And, as I pointed out, in this era of random shootings and public health emergencies, there’s no guarantee that they’ll even be around for the job when the time comes. That’s also a pretty crappy reason to have kids. People should have children because they want to be parents, and wish to love and nurture children.

Although there will always be a twinge of regret, in my case, that I didn’t get to experience parenthood, I can also state that not having children also isn’t the end of the world. I’m grateful that I’m not a very religious person, because I think messages like the one in that photo can be extremely damaging and hurtful to people who buy into the idea that children are “gifts to the ‘worthy’ from God.” Life is hard enough without people feeling like they need to prove “God’s favor” by having a boatload of children… especially if they aren’t really suited for the task of raising them.

As for younger daughter, I continue to be amazed at what a kind, patient, loving mom she is to her three children. They are lucky to have her, and I know Bill is very proud of both of his daughters, even though one of them doesn’t deign to speak to him anymore. I guess, if God was involved in younger daughter’s being here, maybe it was so she could be a great mom to her own kids. But if God had anything to do with her birth, I also wonder what she did to “deserve” having an abusive, neglectful, narcissistic mother who has a habit of making her children divorce their fathers.

Younger daughter has said that talking to her mother gives her nightmares. Did God “choose” younger daughter to endure that kind of hell, as God supposedly “chose” Ex to be her mother because she was the “best” one for the job? And looking at that message again, how does it make younger daughter feel to know that God “decided” Ex was the “best” mother for her? See what I mean? That is a very TOXIC message for MANY people whose mothers weren’t loving and nurturing.

Go on YouTube and listen to videos about what it means to be raised by a narcissistic mother. It’s an experience I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Honestly, though… I think sharing a photo like the one above could be a sign of narcissism. Ex has often mentioned how God has “smiled” on her by giving her five children, whom she has no problem using to achieve her own aims.

Below is a video H.G. Tudor posted about the potential future for Archie and Lilibet. I’m not sharing this because I think Meghan Markle is a narcissist (because while I do suspect she is, I don’t know for sure). I just think H.G. Tudor did a good job explaining what life is like for the child(ren) of a narcissistic mother.

Tsk, tsk, tsk…

And another for good measure…

Yes, this rings pretty true, too. The children are used as pawns or weapons, as the need arises. Pitiful… and unfair to everyone involved, ESPECIALLY the children.

Now… it has been pointed out to me, more than once, that Bill’s daughters are my stepdaughters. Technically, yes, it’s true that they are… or they were, anyway, before their mother (allegedly) got them adopted as adults by #3. But the reality is, I have only met them in person once, and that was twenty years ago. And really, I haven’t had the chance to be a mom figure to them, so I don’t see how I can call myself a stepmother, as opposed to their biological father’s wife.

If the meme above is true, I would hope that God would have done a better job of choosing their mother. I think a loving and just God would have picked a mother who would not have saddled her children with a parent who deliberately complicates her children’s relationships in the way that Ex has, mainly due to her own insecurities and selfish aims. Ex’s three eldest children have all changed their original surnames at least once. Former stepson had his birth name changed when he was a toddler; then it was changed again when he became an adult. Bill’s daughters’ names were changed to #3’s when they were both over 18, and younger daughter changed hers again when she married.

Am I really to believe that Ex was chosen by a loving God to do the “best” job of raising her kids? Sorry, but common sense and my ability to think logically both refuse to allow me to believe that.

Anyway, I have chores to get to, including the dreaded Thursday vacuuming. It’s time to close this post. I’m not complaining… I have a good life, and I know it. I just wish people would think a little bit longer before they share some of the things they do on social media.

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family, mental health, narcissists

WordPress suggests… “Talk about your father or a father figure in your life.”

Fair warning, y’all. This post is a downer, and it’s brutally honest. Not everyone will like my candor, but I’m not one for sugarcoating things. I don’t suggest reading this if you’re not in the mood for negativity. The featured photo is of me and my dad in my maternal grandfather’s garden in Buena Vista, Virginia.

Good morning, folks. It looks like our part of Germany is finally emerging from the recent deep freeze. Unfortunately, I have an unpleasant reminder of the super icy conditions we had yesterday. I had gone out to the backyard to clean up any deposits left by Arran and Noyzi, as Bill was trying to chip the ice on his car and the driveway. Thanks to some melting and refreezing of the ice and snow, the road in front of our house was a sheet of ice. And, sure enough, I slipped and fell on my ass. Fortunately, I was wearing my soon to be retired parka, which somewhat cushioned the blow to my left buttcheek. It’s a bit sore this morning, which is too bad, because my right hip has been hurting since last week, when I repeatedly had to get out of bed to take care of Arran in the wee hours of the morning. I think I’ve got some tendonitis in my hip.

Nevertheless, it’s a new day, and we’ve got stuff to do… like cleaning the toilets, washing the sheets, and writing a new blog post. I was having a touch of writer’s block today, mainly because I don’t feel too much like ranting about the news. Lots of people are already doing that, probably better than I ever could. So, I decided to see what WordPress suggested that I write about today. And, as you can see, they picked a doozy of a topic!

I’ve already written a lot about my father in this blog, who passed away during the traumatic summer of 2014. Seriously, that summer sucked so much! Bill retired from the Army on June 30th, and we spent several anxious months wondering what would be happening next. We lived in a rental house near San Antonio, Texas that we didn’t like, which had a lease operated by a property management company that we’d tried very hard to avoid. They took over managing the lease two weeks after we moved in, and I soon found out that they totally lived up to their terrible reviews on Google (although at least we didn’t have to sue them). As the fateful last day approached, we worried about transitioning into the next phase. Meanwhile, my dad, who was 81 years old and suffered from Lewy Body Dementia, suddenly got very sick and landed in the hospital for emergency gallbladder surgery. He recovered from the surgery itself, but was unable to recover from the anesthesia. That surgery turned out to be his exit from a terrible disease that had completely stripped him of his dignity.

I remember getting the messages from my sisters letting me know that our dad was ill. As we rode in the car toward San Antonio to meet one of Bill’s former colleagues, I recall saying to Bill, “Oh shit. This could be the end.” I meant it was likely my dad was about to pass. While I wasn’t that upset about the prospect of losing my father, I did think the timing of it was most unfortunate and inconvenient. However, in retrospect, I realize that it was actually a good thing that he passed when he did, because we ended up moving to Germany less than a month after he died. And that was when we met our psycho former landlady, who proceeded to be extremely annoying and very toxic for the four years we lived in her property. I won’t get into that, though… that’s a topic for another day. 😉

So… about my dad. We had a complicated relationship. As I get to know younger daughter more, I find myself empathizing with her a lot. My dad wasn’t a narcissist, like Ex is. He was, however, a pretty severe alcoholic. He had PTSD brought on by his time in the Air Force and tours in Vietnam. He was abused by his father, and rarely spoke about “Pappy” unless he was drunk. I didn’t know Pappy, because he died when I was two years old. What I do know about him was that he was also an alcoholic, and when he drank, he was very mean and sometimes violent. I heard about some incidents from my uncles that make me wonder if maybe alcohol made my grandfather a different person. My granny told me that Pappy was a really good man and very kind, but when he drank, he became the opposite. Again, my dad didn’t speak of his father very often, but I do remember him telling me one time that his father pulled a gun on him. My dad, at least, never did that. He never owned weapons.

I do have some good memories of my dad. I think he was, at his core, a very good person. He loved music with a passion. He was creative, and had a good sense of fun. He loved a good adrenaline rush, and had a daredevil streak. When he was in his 50s, he learned to hang glide. He loved roller coasters, white water rafting, biking, and jumping off steep cliffs into mountain water holes. He could be caring when he wanted to be. But he and I seemed to have a personality clash from the get go.

Some of my earliest and most vivid memories of my dad involve screaming and tears. I would get into trouble and he would yell at me or deliver a painful spanking. I remember that spankings were his go to punishment, at least when it came to disciplining me. And they usually came without warning, or any cooling off periods. I don’t remember my dad ever talking to me about the things I did wrong. My mom would often side with my dad, although there were a few exceptions. For instance, the time I got paddled in school in front of my entire class of fellow fourth graders, my dad had wanted to deliver another physical punishment. My mom stopped him, and said it was wrong for the teacher to paddle me, especially in front of my peers. But she didn’t go down to the school and raise hell, which is what I would have done if I had been a mom in that situation.

Whenever there were any problems involving me, my dad would often take the opposing side. He almost always blamed me when things went wrong, with a few exceptions. He didn’t protect me– not from the neighborhood pervert, not from bullies at school or church, and not from his own alcoholic rages. In fact, I seemed to be a gigantic pain in his ass. I remember him getting super mad at me for some reason and raging to my mom, “I’m SICK of her!” And another time, he looked at me and snapped, “You are an ARROGANT person.” He would touch my back and say things like, “You have some fat you need to lose.” Or he’d grab my head and comb my hair, none too gently, complaining that it looked bad. He called me names, too. One time, he called me a hog. Another time, he called me retarded. He frequently referred to me as fat, crazy, or unlikely to ever make more than minimum wage. And he would make me do things like give him back massages, which was rather inappropriate. Looking back on it, I think sometimes he came to me for affection, when my mom was freezing him out. Especially when I was a young child. It was never a sexual thing, though. In fact, my dad was very conservative about sex, at least around me.

My dad loved to sing and many people enjoyed his efforts. I was not one of his admirers. When I started singing, too, he would compete with me. When I decided to take voice lessons as a means of easing my depression, he got wind of it and decided to take lessons from the very same teacher. He would deliberately pick fights with me, and disrespect my property. When I was in Armenia, he went through my CD collection, got it all completely mixed up, and lost a few of my favorites. When I confronted him about it, he got all pathetic and shitty. He didn’t respect me. I was just a product of his loins. 😉

Later, when I married Bill, it was clear that he liked Bill more than me. He wanted to see and talk to Bill, but would ignore me or get my name wrong. When Bill was deployed to Iraq, my dad called me– one of the few times he ever did that– and lectured me about being unemployed. He felt I should be working while Bill was gone, even though we would be moving in a matter of months. I told him my employment status was none of his business, which seemed to take him aback.

One time, we did my parents a favor by driving them to my sister’s graduation. It way May 2003, and I was 30 years old. While we were watching the commencement exercises, some woman was sitting near us and had a problem with us talking. The ceremony was in a gymnasium, and there were people screaming, cheering, ringing cowbells, etc. For some reason, the woman said something to my parents, and my dad turned and bellowed at me that I was “disturbing” people. I was absolutely mortified and humiliated; he spoke to me like I was six years old. I got up and stormed out of the gym, so angry that I told Bill I wanted to leave right that moment. It would have meant taking a train home, since we’d driven my parents’ car. Bill was trying to get me to calm down and change my mind. This happened during our “broke” years, and we didn’t have money to spare for train tickets. My mom tried to sweep the incident under the rug. I ended up being passive aggressive, by ordering several cocktails during our celebratory lunch. Oh, it also happened to be Mother’s Day, so when the restaurant gave me a potted impatiens flower, my dad loudly pointed out that I’m not a mother. I was a stepmother, though. At the time, Bill was still able to talk to his kids.

And then there were the times when my dad was violent with me. He hit me in the face more than once, and one time throttled me after I rightfully called him an asshole. The last time he ever physically struck me, I was almost 21 years old. He hit me in the face and bruised my arm. I told him if he ever laid a finger on me again, I would call the police and have him arrested. That, of course, enraged him. But he knew I meant what I said, and the next time the impulse came to strike me, I asked him if he remembered what I’d told him the last time. In spite of his love of libations, he did remember and backed off.

I remember a lot of fights and arguments with my dad. I remember times when I would get so upset that I’d hyperventilate. My mom would hand me a bag and they’d keep fighting with me, criticizing me for everything from my appearance to my laugh, which my dad hated. I remember going to school with swollen eyelids from crying, and sitting out in the cold at the barn where I boarded my horse, because I didn’t want to go home and deal with him after a fight.

I don’t think my sisters had the same experiences with our dad that I had. I do remember there were some pretty epic fights involving the two middle sisters, but when they were growing up, he was often away on military missions. I, on the other hand, came around when he was at the end of his military career. He started his own business when I was eight years old, and ran it out of our house. So he and my mom were always around when I was growing up, and I grew up like an only child. My sisters were significantly older than I was. Consequently, when he died, they were sadder than I was. I’ll be honest… although I am grateful for the good things my dad did for me, and I realize that he’s certainly not the worst parent there ever was, the truth is, he really traumatized me. And when he passed away, it was kind of a relief for me. I’ve also noticed that in the years since my dad’s death, my mom has become a much nicer and happier person.

My dad was a well liked person in our community. He was a well loved member of our family, too. When he died, a lot of people came to pay respects. I sang at his memorial. No one asked me to speak. They wanted me to sing. There was probably a reason for that. A religious song written by someone else would be more appropriate than anything I might say about my dad. On the other hand, it’s kind of funny that I sang at his memorial. I don’t think my dad was proud of my musical gifts. I think he was jealous of them. I don’t remember him telling me that he thought I had any talent for music. Instead, he would usually criticize me, even as he’d ask me to sing duets with him at church.

I grew up wondering if there was something really wrong with me. I had a hard time relating to other people. To this day, I’m pretty weird and people don’t seem to know what to make of me. But as I’ve gotten older, and become part of Bill’s life, I now see that there was a place for me. I do have a purpose. Because maybe my life would have been easier growing up if I had been more of a people pleaser… but being a people pleaser and marrying Bill would have been disastrous. I needed to survive my dad, because learning how to deal with him made me prepared for dealing with Ex. And I think it’s given me a lot of empathy for younger daughter, who is “nicer” and “kinder” than I am, yet still very resilient and emotionally intelligent. She knows her mother is abusive. She has impressive boundaries. But it still really hurts to have to enforce them against a parent. I can relate. I had to do the same thing with my dad. I wasn’t as resourceful as she’s been, though. She’s a very strong person, with a kind, forgiving, heart. I, on the other hand, have a very long memory, and seem to hold onto anger more than she does.

A few years ago, I had a revelation about my dad. I realized that he was very much a product of his upbringing. My Uncle Ed, who passed away earlier this year, was a lot like my dad in so many ways. They even looked alike when they were elderly men. Ed was younger than my dad was, but they both went to the same college– Virginia Military Institute– and they were both Air Force veterans. Like my dad, Ed was an alcoholic. He could be a lot of fun when he wanted to be. There was a really awesome, fun loving, hilarious, adventurous side to him. But he was also racist, and a proponent of MAGA… a total Trump devotee. Ed used to send me political emails, most of which I ignored. One time, I responded negatively to one he sent about how “great” Trump and Pence were. He sent a totally vile drunken screed to me that brought back awful memories of my dad when he was at his very worst. He called me a “liberal nut job” and spewed all kinds of hatred at me. Unable to tolerate that kind of abuse anymore, I told Ed to fuck off, and warned him to leave me alone before I delivered him a verbal ass kicking. Those were the last words I ever said to him before he died. I’m not sorry about it, either. But it was at that point that I realized that my dad and Ed, when they were going off on these abusive tears, they were basically vomiting up things they heard from their own father. I’ll be honest. It makes me glad I don’t have children to pass this baggage to. Because it’s pretty awful.

I’ve always loved my family, but for so many years I had a distorted view of them. I never realized just how fucked up it was, or how it affected me on so many levels. It took getting out of that environment to realize what I couldn’t see when I was growing up. And now, I’d just as soon stay away, which is what makes living in Germany so perfect for us. I don’t miss that traumatic shit at all. So, when younger daughter talks about her mother, and how the prospect of having to talk to Ex gives her nightmares, I completely understand. She just wants to have a healthy, loving, relationship with her family. But doing that is impossible when you have to deal with someone who is incapable of being mentally healthy… and can’t or won’t address their demons, take responsibility for their part in conflicts, and do what they can to be loving to people who are supposed to be their closest allies in life.

Whew… this post turned out to be a lot heavier and longer than I expected it to be.

Anyway… it may not seem like it, but I truly do believe my dad tried his best. I do think he loved me, in spite of the way he behaved sometimes (which wasn’t all the time). He did have a genuinely kind side to him, and he was always there when I was growing up. He was a good provider, and as responsible as he could have been, given his issues with alcohol addiction. I think most of his problems stemmed from being abused by his father, spending time in a war zone, and being addicted to booze. Ex, like my dad, was also abused, but instead of becoming an alcoholic, she became a narcissist and probably a borderline. Dealing with people who are damaged is very difficult. Maybe if I could have stayed a cute little girl, like I am in the featured photo, we wouldn’t have parted company on such sad terms. And again, I do have some good memories of him. But I sure am glad I married someone who only shares the military and the first name “Bill” with my dad (and actually, my dad’s name was Charles… he just went by “Bill” because my Aunt Jeanne started calling him that and it stuck).

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family, memories, nostalgia

Repost: Lost in Bloomingdale’s…

Here’s a repost from April 28, 2014. I’m reposting it because of the toy post I just wrote… it reminded me of trauma from my childhood. Hope you enjoy.

Yesterday, as I wrote about graduation season, I was reminded of another dramatic event from my youth.  It actually took a long time to get over this particular trauma in the years after it happened, but yesterday was the first time I’d thought of it in a long while. 

I was six or seven years old.  We lived in Fairfax, Virginia, which is a suburb of the Washington, DC area.  At the time of this incident, my sister, Becky, was about seventeen or eighteen.  We generally got along, though she had a tendency to be moody and would get very upset and angry whenever the mood struck.

Becky liked Bloomie’s.

Anyway, one day she decided she wanted to go to Bloomingdale’s at Tyson’s Corner, which is a huge shopping mall in McLean, which is in northern Virginia.  For some odd reason, she decided to take me with her.  My parents had company coming over.  Maybe that’s why she took me… they may have told her to get me out of the house as a condition of driving the car.

So we went to Bloomingdale’s and they had a kids’ area where there were books and toys.  Becky told me to stay there and read while she went shopping.  I stayed there for awhile.  I really don’t know how long.  It could have been a few minutes or an hour.  I was a kid, and a few minutes probably seemed like an eternity to me.  All I know is that at some point, I got bored and decided to go look for my sister.

I started wandering around, but I couldn’t find Becky.  Before too long, I got lost.  I started to cry.  Eventually, a matronly looking black woman approached me.  She said, “Little girl, are you lost?”

I was sobbing uncontrollably, but managed to tell the nice lady that I couldn’t find my sister. 

She said, “Come with me.” 

I followed the lady, who turned out to be a plain clothesed security guard.  She took me to her tiny office and called my parents, who said they’d be right there to pick me up.  Meanwhile, Becky was still out there in the store, looking at the latest fashions.

The security guard took me to what must have been a room designated for lost children.  All I remember about it was that there were couches and a nurse worked there.  Why there was a nurse working at Bloomingdale’s, I’ll never know.  It was the 70s, though.  Maybe she just looked like a nurse.  I remember she wore a white uniform that resembled a nurse’s outfit of that era.

The security guard finally found Becky, who was furious with me and swore she’d never take me anywhere again.  She kept asking the “nurse” why they hadn’t paged her.  The nurse said they didn’t have a paging system in the store. 

My dad eventually showed up at the mall.  He had his friend with him.  They were chuckling about my frightening ordeal.   I remember being very worried about Becky being so mad at me for wandering off.  Had this scenario happened today, God knows what kind of invasions that would have invited into our home.  I’m sure someone would have called CPS!  Not that I would have agreed with that, of course. 

It was a scary incident when I was a kid, but I survived it mostly unscathed… and Becky did eventually forgive me and take me on other outings.  She even joined me in Europe when I was traveling there on the way home from Armenia.  Given how certain parts of that trip turned out, maybe it would have been better if she’d kept her promise not to travel with me anymore… 

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