Hey reader. Another night, another reason to write. Made dinner, eldest is out gallivanting. I get it. I am a homebody now but mostly because I am hurting too much to want to do anything.
Dinner was actually pretty damn good. Simple but good. I want to make more potato bread and get back into baking but I don't want to make the house a sauna. It's like 81 degrees in the daytime good lort.
Work went ok. I was stressed as fuck. I came home and hobbled around. Did laundry. Made dinner. Stressed and studied. I'm going to full time on one job and part time on the other. I'm hoping my ass can handle it but I'm confident I will get farther than before. Burnout is real but at least one boss understands that.
I write a lot here. I need to get back into actual fiction writing but I haven't been able to concentrate to be honest. Everything feels forced and I don't want to force it.
Let it come as it may. Fuck. Reminds me of Moulin Rouge.
Come what may. Come what may. I will love you, until my dying day.
Sad. She dies at the end and he writes the movie- it's pretty but it hurts now to even think about it.
I haven't touched certain things. Both tangible and not. Because it's too early. I feel like spun sugar. Fragile and about to collapse if I cry.
So I bury it.
Deep down. Where it can't hurt me. Yeah. I have been through PTSD counseling and it made worse memories come up so I quit after 11 out of 12 weeks. Go me.
I go to therapy. And I see a psych. And I take my meds. And keep up with the shit that matters.
I hate this world, reader. It's hateful and unfair and I feel helpless most nights. There's no danger here. Obv. However I imagine how other mothers feel right now. It's not a safe environment for kids.
Anyway. If I look at the moon, will Fievel be singing somewhere out there to me?
Hell yes. Cute lil mouse.
S
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