There is a gigantic pile of metaphorical poo sitting in the middle of my house and I can’t do a damn thing about it.
It’s just going to sit there, rotting, drawling flies, impossible to avoid, for another nine days. I have to keep it hidden from my kids. I have to pretend it’s not there and keep moving, not thinking. Focusing on anything but this giant pile of shit.
It’s ever-present and I have to force myself to look around it because the reality shatters me. I cry. And I can’t let my kids see how scared out of my mind I am. The knowing is bad, but the not knowing (how to plan, what’s next, what the road map will look like) makes me want to gnaw off my own leg just to have a distraction.
P.S.- I’m fine. Well, no, I’m not but I’m not in a downward spiral of doom. I’m upset and scared (no, Mr. G and I are not divorcing, yes all the kids are fine, no we’re not losing our house/jobs) and I’ve been asked to keep my mouth shut for a while but blogging is my therapy and I just needed to blog the scaries away. Or at least try.