"I'm surprised you have the patience to sew."
It started out as a compliment given to me by my mother, intended to point out how despite my busy schedule, I am productive in my sewing room. Now say it out loud. Repeat it 120 more times. Disregard that because of her dementia, she does not realize that she's said it already however many times. Disregard good intentions and concern for my stress levels lately and how much I've got on my plate. Disregard her feelings of regret and sadness over having given up driving, thus making her entirely dependent on me to transport her everywhere.
It starts to sound like a commentary on my usual lack of patience; like a judgement of how I choose to spend my non-existent free time; like a criticism of all my failings. I know, it's all my baggage, not hers.
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