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I Want to Be misunderstood

I have always wanted to be understood, possibly because in my crazy, grief-stricken struck deaf blind and dumb home I grew up unseen a cat hunting dust bunnies under the piano. So it was interesting — just after my mothers “death” (but it’s so hard to say when that line is crossed with Alzheimer’s) that I met Jeff. And he said “my desire is to be not understood–I am sick of being captured and caged and exhibited in the trophy case of someone else’s skull.”

I said ” I understand– completely –you experienced your parents rushing into your heart with such force you needed to beat them back to earn your hearts next beat”

And he said ” I don’t understand that. Not at all.”

Here’s hoping we were both a little wrong!

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