Cold as ice

OK, welcome to analogy time…

First of all, I am currently skating through life, trying to stay upright, and I am oh so close, regularly, to going off the rails. That would be mixed metaphors, so sue me.

But here’s where I was actually going…

Living life now is like having to walk across a large frozen lake. Up on the surface it’s cold, and unpleasant, and you don’t want to be there…but at least you’re dry, and hopefully wrapped up in enough support to keep you warm enough, and you don’t have a choice other than to keep going anyway. So off you go. One foot in front of the other. One minute at a time, one hour at a time, one day at a time.

One breath at a time…even when breathing actually hurts.

The shore line is where the waves broke, as did you, and so the ice is fractured into many oddly beautiful and unstable pieces, and as you walk over it, you end up in the water all the time, trying to get through it and keep going.

But you do make it through that bit. You get past it and then on top of it. And you start walking across that endless lake.

It all looks solid underfoot.
Walk in the frozen park, right?

But it’s ice…
Ice is not a reliable solid.
As you start out, you slowly walk and walk, but frequently and unexpectedly, you fall through the ice. It wasn’t as thick as you thought. Like you, it has flaws. You haven’t got the hang of this yet. You can’t judge the ice. The flawed falls through the flaws.

And then you get a little better at it. If you’re lucky you can see the weaker parts. You can walk around them. Keep moving. But every now and then, no matter how well you think you’re doing, the ice breaks underneath you. A crevasse opens up, and down you go. You weren’t expecting it, and…

…every time you fall into the freezing water, at whichever step you are taking on your journey, from the rocky start to wherever you are now, however far you are across the lake, it is just as cold, and scary, and painful, and all encompassing, and drowning is so close…and it is always just as bad as it ever was. And it hurts SO much. SO much. And no-one is diving in to bring you to the surface. There are no saviours here.

It doesn’t get better.
It doesn’t hurt less.
It never hurts less.
It always hurts just as bad as it did when you were first thrown into the depths.
It’s a pain like no other, and if you’re not in the club, which hopefully you aren’t and never will be, any description will be wasted on you. And it’s not a competition. However you end up in the club, you get it.
I’m not crying…oh yes, I am. Regularly. At the drop of a metaphorical hat.

Sometimes, when you’ve spent hours, days, weeks, without being able to climb back on to the ice,when you realise it hurts just as much as it ever did; you wonder whether it’s worth climbing out, and maybe it would just be better to resign yourself to this being how it is?

Maybe it’s time to live down there.
Not drowning.
Still being here.
But just not trying any more.
It can feel like trying isn’t helping.

You’ve been walking across the frozen wasteland for so long.
You still fall in.
You’re running out of fight.
You feel like it will never get better.
That it will always be with you.

And the pain is always indescribable, and all consuming.
Your heart breaks over and over and over again.
Your person still isn’t here.
You miss them with every fibre of your being.
Your brain puts up random memories from nowhere for no reason.
Vivid as the day you were living them.
And all that love is still there within you, with nowhere to go…

What if, what if, if only…

Climbing out of the depths again, and trying again, is so hard.
Maybe it would be easier not to…?

But you don’t give in.
You climb out.
You try again.
You keep on walking.
You hope that there’s a distant shore waiting for you; solid ground beneath your feet.
And you hope it’ll be a while before the ice crumbles beneath you again.
If you’re lucky, the further you go along your path, the ice will crack less often.
And you will fall in less often.

But by now, you know it will always break again.
You just don’t know when.

Because this doesn’t go away.
You don’t get over it.
This is now your life.
And the pain will always be with you.
Carried with you wherever your  journey takes you.
As it should be.
It will change.
But as you loved, so will you grieve.

In the meantime I continue to skate on thin ice, and flirt with going off the rails…because at least that way I feel alive. Briefly. Even if it’s unwise. Sometimes it’s whatever it takes to numb the pain, or take me away from reality. A change is as good as a rest, right?

Eventually sensible cuts in again…but I don’t think I’d ever describe myself as ok. I don’t know what OK is anymore, other than knowing I’m definitely not OK. But maybe one day I will be…with a little help from my amazing friends.

Still don’t get Thursdays

“It must be Thursday. I never could get the hang of Thursdays.”

Other than the odd member of staff in shops and the like, and my fab physio, I haven’t spoken to anyone in person since Sunday night. I’ve barely spoken to anyone on the phone, or on social media. By which I mean people who are my people, not family. Or at the very least acquaintances. Either way, seen or spoken to neither.

Sometime earlier this week I was out and about. On my own, obvs. At one point I realised that absolutely nobody knew where I was or what I was doing. Which was and is a very weird and strange feeling. I haven’t figured out if it’s good strange or bad strange… It’s very hard to separate all the feelings. A part of it is possibly liberating. Another part is scary. Another part is very lonely. And that’s just three parts of a many splendoured problem.

And speaking of feeling, I’ve also not been feeling great for the last couple of days – some bug or another – so I haven’t been able to do my second job. Which is where at least I get to talk to some people, even if it is just part of the job. Some people is better than no people. Put a smile on, play nice, fake it until maybe I make it…

In the meantime I’m writing here, because I literally have no-one to talk to. It’s still just me, pretty much just here, feeling rubbish, eating rubbish, sitting on my increasingly fat a*se, sleeping like it’s a vocation, and drowning in the waves…

Grief. Loneliness. Depression. The struggle is real…and just in case you were wondering, it’s no fun at all. Mind you, that’s probably ok, I don’t really know what fun is these days anyway…

Yeah, I know, poor me, poor me…*rolling eyes*…

Two become one

Two years passed, and now nearly another 2 months more since then.
It could be two years, twenty years, two hundred years…but sometimes it’s two seconds.
When I let myself remember it all, it’s like I’m actually there, and I’ve just slipped back into my head back then, and no time has passed at all.
It’s all just as vivid as ever it was…and I can play it all over and over…

All my memories of us are like that. Sharp technicolour. They don’t fade, I just try not to visit.

Too long.
Too soon.
Too real.

The days are passing. Time is filled. But I’m not getting anywhere. I’m just treading water. But maybe that’s enough?

I now have two jobs. Because it’s good for me to get out, and to keep busy, and to be distracted. To be paid. To meet people, to chat, to play nice and friendly for a while, to have something else to be good at, to remind me that whatever I do, I will always do it to the best of my ability, and I need to remember that, and be proud of that. I’m also enjoying the work, which is a good thing, though the novelty will wear off, work politics and dynamics will eventually drive me up the wall, and I’ll have to leave at some point before I lose the ability to hold my tongue. It’s far from rocket science, so even though I need the extra money, there are other such jobs all over the place. The timer is ticking…lay bets on how long it lasts folks!

Of course all this constant working is also a distraction tactic. I know that. And there’s always the risk of doing too many things and none of them well. Plus, you know, work hard, play hard, right? I’m pretty sure I have a self-destruct thing going on because, hey, who’s going to tell me off? Or tell me to stop? I have no-one to answer to, other than myself, and I don’t ask myself questions I don’t want to answer, because I already know the answers am choosing to ignore them. I no longer have my boulder to lean on, and so I get to flail around wildly and aimlessly. No compass, no compassion, no roots, no direction.

Maybe a bit of me is hoping someone will call me out, and look after me for a while. Someone to care, to make it all a little less hard, take some of the weight off my shoulders, and let me just let go of all the responsibility, pressure, grief…for a while. Somebody I can lean on. But they won’t, and there isn’t anyone, and I know my sensible side will get a grip at some point, I’ll HTFU, and get back on with it. To be fair, I probably wouldn’t lean anyway, I don’t trust anyone enough to do so…and I’m not letting anyone get that close again any time soon. If ever.

Besides, I’m a grown-up, I’m single, and I can do whatever the f*ck I want, and f*ck up however I want. I neither want nor need anyone else’s approval. Remember, those that matter don’t mind, and those that mind don’t matter. Judge not lest ye be judged yourself, and you have no idea what it’s like in my shoes, nor do you want to have.

Two sides to every argument, and a truth in the middle. Maybe.

I still have two amazing kids.
Neither of whom currently live here.
Eldest is still living where he now does, in a new job, discovering that not working in hospitality means you can actually have a life.
Youngest is off being incredibly intelligent, doing a Masters in something involving stem cells and genetic research. Told you she was clever!
I am mad proud of both them.
They are the two best things in my life.
Though the house is too quiet without them, and my head is too loud.

No-one talks about him. Not to me anyway. If I talk about him, people start shifting in their seats and getting uneasy. I get it. But it’s like the only place he exists, and existed, is in my head. And I want to remember him, out loud and proud. Even if I do cry. Aren’t you all used to me crying in public yet?

It’s somewhat better than it was. Except for when it isn’t. And then it’s just as bad.

Being intelligent and self-aware sucks.

Fly on, little wing

I sat outside a pub for a quiet drink and to read earlier.
And sat outside the other pub was someone who looked a lot like Matt.
Which was a bit…unsettling.
Because of course it wasn’t him.
It couldn’t be.
Could it?
Much though I wish I haven’t, I have a fair few crystal clear memories that remind me that it couldn’t be.
And probably PTSD.
But…what if it was?
But if it was, that would mean he’d come back, but he hadn’t come back to me…
And that would be just hideous…

Round and round the mind goes, spiralling downwards…

Of course it wasn’t him.
I don’t know what I’d have done if it had been, and yet he hadn’t come to me…
Nonetheless I wish it had been.
I’d still rather he was here, even if he didn’t want me anymore.
Even though I know how much he loved me.

Ain’t nothing rational about grieving…

It ain’t easy

Today I had to give my Mum a bath, and wash her hair.
And I now have some very complicated complex emotions going on inside, related to that.
Not least of which is…he promised me he was going to be with me through what was clearly coming.
And he knew what that was, he’d been there before.
He promised.
He promised…

But he’s not here. is he?
Over and over again, all the time, I’m reminded he is not here.
Like I didn’t know that.
Like I don’t think about that 24/7.
Like I don’t spend all that time wishing he was still here, wishing he would come back…
Like there isn’t a constant void where he used to be that no-one else can fill, and neither would I let them.
He broke far more than just a promise.
And he’s still not here.
Neither is anyone else.

So here I am looking after my folks, pandering, being patient and cheery, playing nice, driving, catering, caring…
It’s really not easy, on so many levels, even if I am actually very good at doing it.
And I can do it. I can. It’s my job. I don’t resent it at all. I love them both very much, even if one of them isn’t really here anymore. After all that they’ve done for me? This is nothing.
But that doesn’t stop it being hard.
It doesn’t stop the feelings…

This is the third time I’ve done it.
First time around, Matt was here.
Second time around, Austin was here.
This time, it’s just me.
And sadly it looks like it won’t be the last time either.
Cancer is a bitch…

Which all makes it so much harder.
It’s not like I was coping very well with life anyway.
And life sadly seems to enjoy piling it on…

Who’s looking after me?

Loneliness really hurts.
Physically and mentally.
Holy crap, I am SO lonely.
And I was already hurting enough.

I wish I’d been enough… I did my best, but I lost him to demons I didn’t know about until it was too late. A lot of people have a lot to answer for, but that’s between them and their consciences. I know what I know and it will stay that way. I tried so hard, and I did the best I could with what I knew at the time. And hindsight is 20/20. I wish…

But that’s irrelevant now.
Their baggage is not mine.
And their opinion is beyond unimportant.

These days I’m fighting battles on many fronts.
Thanks to my meds I have put on weight and feel horrible. But no matter what, whatever the scales said, he always got it and made me feel desirable, and the feeling was mutual. He was SO fit!
I hope one day someone will do the same, but I doubt it.
I was always amazed that he found me attractive, and that he loved me.
And hey, thanks to my meds, I’m still here.

But I came SO close to not being…

I still love you, my beautiful boy, and I always will. Counting down…

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

One day…

A million dreams

I want to write.
But I’m worried that if I write how I feel, that I will be judged,
That there will be people out there going, “really?” “you haven’t gotten over it yet?”.
And even if they’re not saying it, a bit of me is hearing it…

And no.
I’m not over it.
I’m not even moving forward with it.

A few days ago it was his 50th birthday.
A milestone he will never reach.
And a milestone that I will reach ahead of him.
On my own.
I will be older than he ever was.
It was not a good day.
A lonely day in a very specific way.

I do sometimes have better patches.
But the bad patches are just as bad, if not worse, as they ever were.

I should have killer abs.
Because my gut clenches when those thoughts hit.
It physically hurts.
My face is streaked with dried tears.
And I really cannot explain how literally painful it is.
I have endometriosis.
I have had broken bones.
I know pain.
This?
Way beyond…
It is tearing me apart, day after day after day.

And before you accuse me of wallowing…
Do you not think I want to feel better?
Have those “get up and choose to feel better” memes sucked you in?
They’re all b*ll*cks.
It’s just not that simple.

This is how it is.
To deny it it would be wrong.
Just a pressure cooker that explodes, sooner or later.
Grief is your path, that you walk on your own.

There are no short cuts.
I have to keep on living through it.
Loneliness hurts almost as much as grief.
And life keeps throwing extra challenges, as if the current status quo wasn’t enough.

My self esteem is at an all time low.
Weight gain, age, meds…
I feel fat and ugly and old.
And frequently in serious levels of pain.

I work.
I keep busy.
I distract myself.

But then suddenly I want to talk to him.
I have something to share with him, that he’d totally get, like no-one else.
Or I need a Matt hug. To be engulfed and understood and comforted.
The sun is shining, but I can’t go to a beach without him.
It’s a weekend and I have nowhere to go and no-one to see.
Just the same old, same old, stay in bed, ignore the world, sleep as much as I can, until it’s over.

I can’t explain to you how this kind of unavoidable but pointless endless yearning hurts.
I miss him.
Three small words that try to encompass a world full of feelings that cannot be fixed.
A universe of loss and pain and tears and regrets and what could have been…and nowhere to go with all of those feelings.
I miss him.
Like someone ripped a part out of me, and left me less me.
And having been shown who I could be, with his support and his love, and how we were, I don’t know how to be anything anymore.
I don’t know how much longer I can endure this amount of raw, intense, all encompassing, agony.
I miss him.

I keep doing life.
Day after day.
Same shit different day.
But I don’t know how the f*ck to keep on doing it.
I guess I don’t have any choice.
So I’ll keep on doing it.

But it’s not getting better.
Time does not heal.
It just makes us further apart.
That’s not better.

We were everything.
And now I’m nothing.

My darling I’m holding on so tight…but it’s a losing battle.
I’ve lost him.
My other half, my soulmate, my partner in crime..
And I’ve lost me.

The sunshine through my window has gone.
I am forever grateful for having had him in my life…

…but I sometimes feel like I died with him.

Maybe tonight, I can dance with his ghost again…it’s as close as I can get, until I’m there with him, wherever that is, or isn’t.

Comfortably numb

So Saturday was predictably horrendous.  Four years since we got engaged…

To be fair it did have its good points. I saw people, ate pizza, drank wine, put on the mask, and played the game. Other than that…I was a wreck. An unstoppable, leaking, wailing, hopeless wreck.

Since then I seem to have achieved some sort of numb, which is distinctly more restful, though I doubt it’s healthy. I expect it’s a temporary reprieve. There are more big dates coming up, and more stuff that I’m going to have to cope with and deal with on my own, where once he would have been.

Being alive is hard work. But it’s work that has to be done. Life doesn’t currently come with options…

One of those days

When I got married I settled.
I knew that when I did it.
I was so scared that no-one would ever love me, that I settled for someone who was close enough.
Which I always knew.
And I can’t regret it, because I have two of the most awesome kids ever.
They are my achievement.
When they weigh the scales, and see how I did with them, I’ll be ok.

But then bad things happened.
And then I was single, with occasional distractions, for a long time.
And then Matt came along.
And he pursued me and swept me off my feet.
With the kind of relationship I’d only ever dreamed of.
Complete with fireworks.
With fire, comes burns but…
No matter what, we loved each other.
And regardless of what his close family think, it wasn’t toxic.
Anyone who thinks that is merely transferring their own guilt on to me.
And they can f*ck off.

4 years ago today (well, yesterday cos I’m still up) we got engaged.
I have never been so happy.
He was over the moon.
It was a totally amazing, all we’d ever dreamt of day, that was totally us.
Beach, waves, surfing, fizz, us…
It was a perfect day,
The day we both wanted.
It was everything.

I couldn’t believe someone like him would want me.
I couldn’t believe someone like him would find me attractive.
But he did and I did, everything was mutual, and we were pretty much always on the same page.
When it was good, it was breathtaking.
When it was bad, we worked on making it better.
But that day?
I’m pretty sure I’ll never be as happy again.
And these days I am as far from that happy as you can be.

I have tried to pick myself off the floor.
I have tried to make myself feel better.
But you can’t force these thing, no matter what the memes say.

I am apparently suffering from anxiety and severe depression.
I’m on meds again.
And they work some of the time.

But they can’t fix the root problem.
They stop me being suicidal, mostly…

But they can’t fix me.
He’s the only one who could fix me.
My partner in crime.
My soul mate.
My other half.
My beautiful boy.

He’s not here.
And I will never stop wishing he is.
And I still don’t know how to live without him.

No-one meets their knight in shining armour twice. Let’s face it, what we had was a miracle. So I guess this is it…this is how it’s going to be forever.

I’d like to think it wasn’t. But I’m pretty sure it is. After all, the bar is set pretty high…

Is there anybody out there?

I know.
It’s been a very long time since I’ve written here.
But then I’ve been in a very dark place for a very long time…since well before Christmas.
I don’t talk to people. I don’t see people. And quite clearly, when I’m down here, I don’t write either.

Finally, after a degree of offspring nagging, and my own internal thoughts, I realised that I couldn’t carry on feeling this way every day, and I finally contacted the Doctors. Who I didn’t really want to bother because, you know Covid. And it’s just grief right?

Only apparently it’s not just grief. It’s complicated grief, and serious depression, and anxiety, and I need to be on meds again, whether I like it or not.

So I am.
Sertraline.

They’re not really helping yet, as it takes anything up to 12 weeks for them to start working, depending on how your brain and biology work. I think they sort of help in the “morning” (I live in a different time zone to you all, thanks to my sleep patterns) for a while after I’ve taken them, and then come the evening when they’re wearing off, and when I’ve finished being distracted by work (the only thing I can actually get done around here, luckily), and that’s it….

…I’m back to anxiety attacks before I go to the shop, or have to meet anyone, or need to join a zoom call (the number of which I have now bailed on is getting embarrassing), or anything. Then there’s intrusive thoughts, memories, floods of tears at random and frequent times, and it hurts so much each time – the loss, the grief, the loneliness, the pain, the fear – it never hurts any less.

I come downstairs at some point. Tash and I figure out some sort of food, which is a fairly random affair, especially as I have absolutely no appetite. We watch crappy TV, I try and hold it together and then it’s bedtime again. And every time I have to climb those stairs, up to a room where he isn’t, to sleep in our bed, it kills me inside. I still kind of expect to see him lying there, waiting for me… I can’t sleep on my side of the bed anymore, because the empty space next to me is too obvious and painful for me. But when I sleep on his side, then I also know I’m sleeping where he died…and…it’s not exactly a win-win situation.

But I can’t even cry myself to sleep. Welcome to insomnia. See, I can’t try and go to sleep until I’m properly tired, otherwise I just lie there and my thoughts go round and round and round in an ever-descending spiral and I end up so upset that sleep is impossible. So they prescribed sleeping tablets too, but neither type have worked, so that was a waste of time. So I play games on the iPad, and then I read, and then finally I reach a point where it feels like it’s finally time…and even then I have to go to sleep listening to a podcast. By then we’re talking 3/4am…if I’m lucky.

Then I wake up around midday, groggy as hell, especially if I was trying the sleeping tablets, hopefully earlier than that (but rarely), but usually in time for work, so I get to work, and the whole shitty wheel turns round again.

And weekends are worse, because I don’t even have work to do, and I can’t summon the energy or motivation to get out of bed, and I have plans for things I’d like to get done, but they just don’t. So it’s just me, my bed and I, and the lovely cups of tea Tash often brings me.

Last week marked 18 months since Matt left us. Not that I expect anyone to remember that, though his family probably do. There’s an additional grief in knowing that they’re out there (oh so wrongly) blaming me for his death, whilst knowing that there is nothing I can do or say to change their minds, because doing so is their coping mechanism. So I have to live with that. I’m sure I make a lovely scapegoat; I am an Aries after all. It doesn’t stop it hurting though. However I do wish I was more in touch with his kids…yet another thing I feel bad about. But the whole situation became so toxic, and things have to work both ways… As ever, I wish things were different. And, as ever, they are not. It’s just such a shame that such tragedy, rather than bringing us all closer together, as it should have, has instead just pushed me out completely. And it’s lonely out here on my own.

I feel so guilty and ashamed of myself for not coping better, for not being stronger, for not being able to hold it together, for not being able to get anything done; in fact for being generally hopeless all round. I feel bad for all the friends I have let down at short notice for plans we’ve made because I just couldn’t cope that day. I get nothing done, I do no exercise, I’m unfit and probably overweight (like I’m going to be stupid enough to stand on the scales right now).  I haven’t ridden the bike in two years now. I feel so bad for not being who I was, and for not knowing who I am now. I pretty much hate myself.

I miss all my friends – the pandemic has done a real number on us all in so many ways – and being able to see them would help so much. Since Covid happened, I feel like I’ve been stuck for a year, unable to move forward; paralysed. If anything I’ve gone backwards. As ever, when you think things can’t get worse, they can…

So here I am. Counting down to see if/when the pills help, and hoping beyond hope that they do. I know that they can’t fix the inherent problem, but if they can just bring me up to a level where I can function on a day to day basis, that would be good.

In the meantime, although I don’t talk to people, if anyone would like to message me, through any of the many channels that are available to us all, it’d be good to hear from the outside world once in a while.

If you want me, I’ll be staring at my wall of many treasures, from the security of my duvet nest…

😭💔 I miss him SO much, and still love him just as much 💔😭

 

Unspoken words

I just want to talk to him. Not a deep heart to heart, not questions about whys and wheres and hows and wherefores. Just for him and me to curl up on the sofa, shoot the breeze, chat about each other’s day, and just be normal us for a little while. I want to hear his voice. I want to make him laugh; to hear that belly laugh again. I want life to be, just briefly, what it was. Normal.

And that’s the irony of it all, isn’t it?

The only person you want to talk to, who loves you, your best friend, who could give you the right hug, who knows you inside out and who would know how to help you, the only one who could properly comfort you and support you through your loss…is the person you have lost.

And there’s no getting past or around that…it’s a mobius strip, an infinity symbol, two sides, two dimensions; what you want, what you can’t have, just going round and round and round in your head…

I miss him. So much. All the time.

Ah well, at least Max seems to have decided that he can actually sit on my lap, right?

It’s been a bad week. Ouchy got up to morphine necessitating levels this weekend for the first time in a very very long time. Tash is here but I’ve been quite literally stuck in bed for days, only getting work done, mostly sleeping for the rest of the time. And pain makes it so much harder to cope with anything and everything. Any walls you do have just crumble before it. I just feel so fragile and pathetic and useless…

My counsellor hasn’t returned my call so I’m a bit scared to call her again, because in the current world, there could be anything going on in her world that I could be intruding on… And I can’t bring myself to call the doctors. It’s all too much like hard work to go through the filtering system and tell my many stranded story to some complete stranger over the phone, who will probably be completely useless like the last two times, so why waste my time?

So anyway, Tash is here, and she won’t be here for long, and I’ll feel even worse when she’s gone, and I should be making the most of it. I feel so guilty for letting her down and not being there, for not being mentally present. But she has work to do and I have work to do, and the weather is shit, and the pandemic means options for getting out for entertainment are limited, and so, apparently it’s ok, it’s all understandable, and she doesn’t mind, apart from the fact she’d like us to get some shopping done because there’s no food in the house. Which is a valid point. I’ve been feeling nauseous a lot lately, and the pain patch ramped that up, so food is so far down my list of things to do that I literally don’t even think about it. So yes, shopping is required. She has to eat even if I don’t want to.

In the meantime, we might get to see Austin briefly on the 23rd. Which is nice, though I won’t be holding my breath…best to under expect these days I find.

And I joined a ukbp Zoom on Sunday even though I so nearly cried off, quite literally. I was in floods of tears at the thought of putting on the mask and showing up and faking it, but Tash convinced me it might be good for me, and to be fair it was actually really nice to chat to them, so I’m glad I made myself and I’m glad she made me.

Other than that, the Hyundai definitely needs a new engine and, looking at the price of replacing it versus the cost of that, my poor much loved, with me since birth, little red car, is probably heading for the scrapyard way before its time. Which is rather sad. And “new” car shopping is a crapshoot….

As ever, various other sh*t is going on in the background, that has implications and connotations and emotional impact and the like. Then there’s the “C” word…make that “C” words, plural.

Things are not great all ’round. But then we knew that already. Time is not a healer, and anyone who says that…? It’s been a long time since I’ve punched someone. But right now I feel it might be therapeutic. Or maybe they’d put me away somewhere safe for doing it? So go on, I dare you…