So it's over.
You remembered my birthday two years in a row. Why you forgot this year, I don't know. But that hurt. I would say that hurt almost as much as demanding to be taken to the hospice to see my dying aunt but only almost because it isn't as dire or serious. You had a million chances to come with me when I did her laundry every week and see her before she passed away but you did not take them because you wanted to sleep.
I can't stand by and watch you defeat yourself. Perhaps you do need therapy. Maybe you don't. I don't know. I know your medications cause you to forget things and to sleep a lot, but seriously, 5 minutes out of your day not to pick up the phone and say "hello"? Even if it was a day early, I'd be okay with it. If you hadn't remembered the first two years, I'd be okay with it. But no. You fucked up big time, and I'm not as forgiving now, and what's worse, is that I told you that after the thing with my aunt.
Maybe it's time for you to learn that actions have consequences. Pity that your parents didn't teach you that lesson. Pity that you didn't learn to be nice to people. That's not a part of your condition; I know bipolar people and schizophrenic people who've learned manners, even if occasionally they're awkward.
But you? You don't take the time to care or listen. And while I hate to say this, no, you do not get to tell black people what's racist or not. It's up to the person to decide what they're comfortable with. Asking stupid white questions is one thing, but saying that someone shouldn't find things racist is another. Build a bridge and get over it.
I'm done.
