***TRIGGER WARNING*** Bad, bad thoughts ahead.
This is it—I have found it—I am in Hell. Or at least my version of it, anyway. Things have fallen through at my son’s so Will and I can’t move in with him, and as of now we have nowhere to go.
Nowhere to go.
To say I am terrified would be the understatement of the year. It’s a nightmare knowing that we will literally be homeless in another couple of weeks unless some miracle occurs and we find someplace to hang our hats, at least for a while. I never believed that life could come to this. I never thought it would come to this. But with every box that gets packed, every sentimental piece I wrap in newspaper and pray I will get to use again, the reality sinks in further and it hits me yet again: this is all happening because of me. Because of my disease. Because I couldn’t cope with my old life anymore.
I’ve been told that I can’t move forward if I don’t learn to forgive myself for the things I can’t help. But how does one move forward when what lies ahead is even more frightening than the present reality? I don’t want to be here for this, let alone the future if all I can expect is more of the same (or worse). Don’t get me wrong—I’m not planning to do anything stupid—but these thoughts are coming at me like seagulls dive-bombing a picnic table and I can’t push them away entirely. I think about Will and how it might be easier for him to find housing if he were alone—nobody would let an older man with cancer live in a car. Maybe one of the kids would take him in if it was just him and not the two of us. He’s pretty low-maintenance, and he’s helpful too.
But I also know that he’d never be the same if I were to make for the exit, and the kids would just be pissed at me. I don’t want them to be pissed at me. And I lack the guts to take being thought of as a coward, even though I personally don’t see suicide as a cowardly act. I’m only talking about it because it’s the way my brain is wired—I’ve NEVER gone through a serious life crisis without thinking of it at least once—and this is my most spectacular failure in my entire fifty-five years on this planet. But I’m going to stick around because a) I have an insane need to see just how many more indignities I can handle, b) that could be useful knowledge, and c) I haven’t hit rock bottom quite yet. That will probably come on that first night in the car or at the shelter.
In the meantime, it looks like everything is a go for the cats to be taken to their new home on Saturday. I’m still amazed at that miracle, and of course I’m still praying that God will see fit to squeeze out one more for Will and me. Trouble is, I can barely stand to spend time with them now…..it hurts too much to pet them and hear them purr, knowing they’ll be gone in just a few days. They’ll be OK, even though they won’t understand what’s happening, and they are NOT going to be happy about the four-hour drive, in carriers no less. I wonder if we’ll ever have cats again; part of me believes I don’t deserve them. But then, part of me stubbornly clings to the certainty that all of this is my fault, no matter how many people tell me otherwise.
So, how DO I move forward? I’m sorry as hell about the past, I fear the future, and the present isn’t much of a picnic either. How do I stop blaming myself when it all leads right back to me?