River of piss

Dreamed I smelled cat urine, and saw that Moby had peed in the dining room, a puddled stream half way across the room, squatted at one end. And I was anguished that we'd let him get that ill that he was so completely incontinent. Dylan was glad to see him alive, but I had to take him aside and say "We are hallucinating. Moby died in my arms right here months ago. This isn't real."

I'm still grieving. I weep. I don't miss the piss, but I will never stop missing the great soul of that cat.

Dealing with the public

I've yet to find a way to get people to talk more quietly to the voices in their head.

-Dylan

And the work goes on and on and on

That last post from Captain Awkward, of course.

Still in foot pain, still exhausted, still marginally self-destructive.

I want to be well and full and energetic. I can work toward that.

Shoulda, Coulda, Woulda....

If “should” is somebody’s only argument for spending time together as a family, like “Look this Family Tree is basically a binding contractual Org Chart that means that you have to do what I want and I get to treat you however I want and you still have to love me and show up for me, forever” and they have nothing else to offer, or they insist that anything nice or fun also has to come with a bunch of vitriol and blame and unkindness? Maybe that’s a shitty bargain and you get to opt the hell out and join our union, the union of adults who can’t undo the damage of childhood but who can refuse to accept ongoing harm as a condition of having a family. “The Fuck-Its Local 101.”

Fuck should.

Be.

When sleep isn't enough

Woke up wondering if I'm ever going to be well again. Relived Moby's last minutes, and wept a bit. But then I've been breaking out in sobs a lot recently, not always with a specific reason. Grief/exhaustion/virus crying. Best not to be at work for this.

Chatted with neighbor this morning, too. He's worried about the world, as am I, so we consoled each other. I petted Spike - his silver schnauzer-mix-rescue, which is always a happy for both of us.

Feeling the fatalism, twenty or so more years, which is too much, not enough, how can I go on that much longer, let it not be that long, oh no not that little left...

It's the fatigue talking, I know.

Dropping the baggage

Broken toe, broken wrist, death of Moby, death of mother, death of co-worker, fired scrub, two new bullies, long hours, bad virus.

Falling back, tactical retreat. Eventually everything fails apart.

Yes, I wrote that as I intended.