It’s been a month of hell… to put it mildly. No, I’m not looking for sympathy because some of this is convoluted which simply adds to the stress. I scored 793 on the Holmes and Rahe Stress scale. It’s no damn wonder I suddenly developed the tic of tapping my right foot. The right foot with the chronic torn Achilles tendon. Sheesh. Not the left. The right mind you.
My half-sister who has battled cancer finally gave up the war she had had with death. I said the ending would not be pretty because she would fight every inch of the way. She did. And it wasn’t. It’s convoluted because she voted for Trump. I’m not sure… It did serve to distance us and I did my best not to let her know it. You do not inflict that on a dying person. However, I am left to deal with the feelings that I simply did not matter. Which considering my family is.. well… a group who a therapist refers to [in a very restrained way] as ‘nutters’ should be no surprise. She’s the one who came closest to caring. I’m still up in the air about it.
My Uncle who I idolized when I was growing up died. Oh… He voted for Trump. Yeah. Same story.
My Aunt, his wife, my mother’s sister, died 10 days after. I didn’t think she would last without them. She didn’t. I can’t say there is deep emotion there. She’s the type of person who would have a huge funeral because everyone would want to make sure she was dead. A mean, nasty, spiteful, vindictive person who would spread any gossip that came her way. The don’t speak ill of the dead doesn’t hold water with me. IF you did not want them to do that, then don’t do ill. That simple. You get to own what you are. Dead or alive.
The book sold. The damn thing blew up. It’s being edited again and honest to God… I hate editing. I’m not sure what I like most, a root canal or editing.
I am working on setting up a business.
My back pitched a hissy fit for the last week. Not just a “Oh that hurts” but a “Oh God… I can’t move. Do I need to call 911” fit. After the niece texted and asked if I was going to the memorial service on Sunday for my sister and I said no, it started to ease up immediately. Stress. I was there when she needed me. I don’t need that family. Nor do they need me [see voting for Trump]. Time to move on. That comes under the no one left to give a rats ass about.
I realize I need to move.
I realize I am not safe in the USA because of who I am even though my last ancestor arrived here in 1773 and both sides fought in the Revolution.
I realize I have no family to tie me down. There is nothing here. And that is a double-edged sword.
So by the time I am done, my stress level is 793 and I am staring at the blank page of the next chapter in the next book saying “What the fuck do I write?”. I’m numb. I’m drained. I’m… stressed.
And I damn well want to be able to write which adds to the damn stress.