I have an hour until I pick my children up again.
Excuse me while the toddler in me has a screaming temper tantrum, because I don’t want to, I am tired and sick of it and this is unfair.
(Life isn’t fair, Lori, isn’t that what my mum used to say?)
Having a break is lovely. But it makes going back even harder.
Plugging on. Moving on. Getting up every day and getting dressed and doing it- life. No matter how hard it is.
When all I want to do is sleep and eat chocolate and cry a little bit.
I don’t feel sorry for myself very often.. like a rocking chair, it gives you something to do, but gets you nowhere. It’s not my style to wallow.
But tonight I am very, very sorry for myself. this is fucking unfair and why does everyone get a normal life and I have to struggle on with this?
I don’t want to play anymore.
So many times, those four days when Tony was in the ICU, I turned to my best friend and said “They may need to sedate me soon. That’s OK, that’s fine, tell them to knock me out… I’m looking forward to it.”
Because I always felt on the verge on becoming hysterical, the verge of my fractured mind absolutley cracking and screaming out all the horror inside.
I still feel like that, sometimes. Like tonight. I don’t want to go back to life, back to my kids, back to being lonely and constantly swimming amongst my own murky thoughts.
Sedate me. Someone. Please.