I just finished reading another book called Running with Scissors by Augusten Burroughs. It's a memoir about Augusten's childhood, and it's not at all for the faint of heart. It's gritty and graphic and brutally honest because Augusten had a difficult childhood. He was basically abandoned by his alcoholic father and mentally ill mother, and raised by the strange family of his mother's psychiatrist, Dr. Finch. The Finch household was anything but stable because anything was allowed, including: not going to school, drinking, smoking, sex, and making a mess. The family fought often and also did a lot of strange things like: eat dog food, leave the Christmas tree up until May because no one would take it down, or move their living room furniture outside for the summer.
I'm not one to usually use the word "blessed" because I think it implies that someone is doing the blessing and if that someone decides they don't want to bless you anymore then they can take away your blessings. I prefer the word "thankful" because I think so-called "blessings" are more luck or karma than gifts from above. Whatever you want to call it, not a day goes by that I don't feel thankful for the things I have. I may not have had the perfect childhood, but compared to Augusten it was downright awesome. Also, I'm sure most kids from broken homes or in foster care would have gladly traded places with me. I'm so thankful for my family, my husband, my dog, my home, my health, every little thing that I have. I don't take any of it for granted. I know how quickly everything can be lost. Do I deserve all these blessings? Maybe. Maybe not. But I don't believe that I deserve more than any other person, except maybe someone who is not thankful.
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