Life has been particularly hard lately. It's just weeks until the first anniversary of Stef's death, and it is hitting all of us like a sledgehammer, swung over and over on us until we are reduced to pulp. Lucid dreams come to me late at night, revealing nothing and everything, all at once.
Some of my old loyal readers have fallen away, I've noticed, likely because they don't want to hear the raw emotion of what I'm experiencing. Death is something people want to forget about quickly, at least when it didn't happen to someone close to them. They want me to get over it. They want me to go on. But this emotional upheaval is something I must write about. I have no other outlet.
My son hasn't spoken to me in days. He's having problems and has been taking some of them out on me. On Monday he "hung up" on me on Chat and hasn't made contact with me since. He's off his meds and is not taking responsibility for getting back on them. It's worrying me and upsetting me. I hate that I passed on the genes for mental illness - depression and bipolar disorder. I hate that my legacy is that of demons and dark places. Why couldn't I just have passed on the blue eyes and light hair without passing on the madness?
These are my darkest hours. These are my darkest thoughts. If I had a way to stop the pain that wouldn't hurt anyone else, I would. I just would.