Favorite bumper sticker: "Stupid people make me cry"

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I've never been good with expressing emotions. I always felt that emotions were a sign of weakness - part of being raised as my father's "son", I suppose. Lately I'm having a hard time bottling up those things that bubble up when people start flinging arrows and stones. Some I deserve. Others, less so. Innocent comments get taken out of context and used to further some cause. I make a genuine post about an overwhelming feeling I have, and someone turns it into an accusation, based on some sort of internet statistic that proves I've posted in response to something else. Frankly, I don't see the connection. I get angry more often than I used to, but I often feel like I've been kicked in the gut too. I'm not accustomed to that one. It usually brings tears. Intended kindnesses are perceived as attempts to control. And this post will be labeled as an attempt to send someone on a guilt trip - but hey - if the shoe fits, baby, wear it out.
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Maybe it is time to panic. Wednesday morning I took Michael to the ER with a severe headache - one that had awakened him at 4:00am. He said his vision was blurry in one eye and he was having trouble walking, so after running Heather to school and consulting with his allergist to make sure this wasn't some weird side effect of something he was taking, I took him to the ER at 10:00am. They did a CT - saw nothing. Started giving injections of dilaudid. Several hours passed, several doctors and nurses checked in on him and asked questions. I called Jimmy to have him pick up Heather after school and take her home, then around 3:00pm they did a spinal tap. Fluid looked clear. The neurologist showed up, began asking more questions, checking reflexes, etc. Michael's left leg felt numb and didn't pass the reflex test. The doctor decided an MRI was in order. That was at 6:00pm. After a nurse assured me they wouldn't take him anywhere without my knowledge, I ran upstairs to McDona...
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I don't like funerals. I'm not sure that they're truly helpful to the family, but it is an expected part of the process. It just seems to me that their only true purpose is to serve as a vivid reminder that life is short, and that we never get enough days to do the things we want. I also don't like arguing with people. I think discussion is good, as long as its productive and doesn't devolve into namecalling, but I've always considered myself a peacemaker. I thought that was my job, to mediate and try to keep the peace between warring parties; it was a by-product of my parent's divorce. Perhaps that's the root of the passive-agressive tendency - I don't feel I can say what I really think, so I try to find a diplomatic way to say it without hurting anyone's feelings. Apparently I'm not as good at it as I think, so perhaps I should consider a more direct approach. The funeral was moving, and I'm glad that I went. But it does make me wonder ...
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