I'm wrapped up in the afghan crocheted by the parent who was most definitely in an abusive relationship with a man who struck his child way too hard. I think they're still together. CPS was called. I called them. Me. When I was pregnant she crocheted me this gorgeous pastel afghan. Truly beautiful. She said not to thank her, that it was something she did while watching TV. I hope she's okay. I guess I could find out. She works with Leel's best friend's dad.
Making plans to call my friend who is getting her doctorate in trauma therapy. If she has the bandwidth. I'm kind of hesitant. That sounds like: "Free therapy please."
I guess I could just call my therapist. She said check-in's were fine.
Incense going. Sandalwood.
Not much sleep last night.
Just more sadness.
I'm so scared of what the future holds.
This moment, four days after my last day at work is exactly what I thought it would be.
The consuming work is what hides the hard parts in other sectors of one's life.
For instance, when I quit Pulse in the way-back, that's when things were supposed to get better. My relationship would be better! Scott and I would finally have time for each other!
But what really happened was that the distractions that were being involved in that psychodrama threw all the problems at home into high relief. I won't get into that right now. I'm just making generalizations.
I saw him Instacarting on Thursday; no acknowledgement. He really dodged a bullet with this one (points two thumbs at self)! In actuality he's not one of my regrets, though. That ran its course boy did it.
Having a solid decade of therapy under my belt is useful in that the habits built there are the only things nudging me towards self- or other-compassion when under nigh constant attack.
Oh, and the boys are coming tomorrow. Sorry, boys. Things are not better here than you left 'em.
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