Well it’s official, after a 2 year journey to get my parents’ house cleaned out and spruced up, it is no longer ours. It belongs to a whole new family, who I hope will make wonderful memories of their own. With any luck they will get just as much joy as it brought my mother.

One of the things she would repeatedly say to me, as her dementia worsened, was that she was going to die in that house because it’s where “my husband died and my mom died.” Both of them, including my mother, passed in hospitals. So, I don’t know where she got that idea. Yet, it did just occur to me, that it was my mother’s garbledegook she spoke. It wasn’t that they had died, it was where they had lived. The house brought her joy and comfort.

After my mom had lost the ability to swallow, I contemplated having her moved to her house to fulfill her wishes. I feel terrible that I didn’t. It would have brought her so much joy to be there when she passed. But all I could think about was her dying in the house, and me having to disclose it. Then there is the fact that the move may have been too much for her, and on top of that it wouldn’t have been cheap. Also, I would have had to stay there with her, which wouldn’t have been a problem, but it would have put all the pressure on the brother-husband to take care of Charlie.

It is this exact scenario in which my husband has outlined his wishes for his final days. He’s seen how I blame and beat myself up for doing all the wrong things. Even years after my dad’s death I still doubt my decisions. I feel like I made all of the wrong ones. To avoid that, he had a frank conversation with Tony and I about what he wanted. We also filled out his advanced directive. (Every time I think of it I always call it ‘prime directive.’ Without fail.)

Now, with my childhood home gone all I need to focus on is caring for my polycule, specifically my husband. Once he has gone I will have officially lost everything related to “my youth.” I will enter into the next stage of middle age.

I am unfortunately sinking into a depression. I can feel it in my chest, every bit of progress it makes. And the only way I could even describe the sensation is this image from Game of Thrones. It’s when Dany goes into a scalding hot bath and, her eyes fixed blankly forward, just slowly goes into until she’s submerged.

The unfortunate thing is I want to write. I want to specifically talk about these feelings and try and work through them. Though when faced with the reality to do it, I hesitate. Trying to get myself to move past these emotions is a herculean task. And I have things to discuss, topics I want to hit, but I just lack any motivation.

Lately, the only “motivation” I have had is to “run away.” When I think of… Where things will inevitably conclude with my husband, I imagine myself just taking off for a month and driving the country solo. When I had voiced this desire to Charlie, he brought up a very, very good point, “what about my family?” Being the knight I long to believe I am, I realized that wasn’t an option. At least, not for awhile.

So, the desire lingered, but frustration was attached to it. Sometimes I pull out this “want” whenever I delve into my misery, and today a new emotion floated up. What do I do in these towns? I thought I would just sight-see but alone. I will be alone. That realization brought me pause. Is this something I really want to do? Yeah, it sounds like a good idea now, as the tide is rising, but no matter how much space is put between me and home, the water travels with me.

I notoriously don’t know how I will respond until I am in that moment. I like to think that I have a frim grasp of my emotions, but I am a mystery even unto myself. Things I always thought would upset me, when faced with it, I was fine.

The other day, I was doing a re-watch of “Dungeon & Dragons: Honor Among Thieves” and there is a line that my husband croaked back at me.

“That’s you,” he said.

“What is?”

“You are at your strongest when you think you’re at your weakest,” he restated the line to me.

Right now I don’t feel very strong. I really do feel weak. I’m worn out. And I don’t know if losing these things that have caused me anxiety will be good or not. For instance, tomorrow is the day we are supposed to close on the sale of my parents house. My childhood home. I’ve said my goodbyes to it (y’know, like a weirdo) and I am looking forward to it no longer being a drain on my limited resources. But then it occurred to me, this is just one more loss from “my childhood.”

Once my husband passes I will be in a new age. Everything from my youth will have been taken from me. It is the natural progression of things, but… when faced with it I am just overwhelmed.

Which is why I think I’ll fix my eye to the horizon and just keep driving. I’ll take a month off of work and just run… But most likely, I won’t.

My journalism professor once said that there is a story in everything. Even in the lack of one lies the question, why isn’t there? That’s what I’m telling myself now. As it turns out I have nothing to write about. I don’t want to write. I just don’t feel like it. It’s been much of the same for me since the holidays and try as I might I have nothing left to give. I’m exhausted.

Obviously, some part of me wants to, or else I wouldn’t be here now. Yet as I attempt to do this I just don’t know what I want to say. There is nothing of significance happening in my life, at the moment, that I want to share. And I have grown so exhausted with my own complaints that I don’t want to open up about those.

For the select few that may worry, I am medicated. Steadily, regularly, my blood stream courses with antidepressants so I don’t go off the deep end. I had to get back on them because for a brief moment I didn’t want to be around. I contemplated how I would do it, and what that would mean to those around me. That was the wake-up call I needed to put me back on them from my brief hiatus.

For a hundred percent transparency, I will say that the want to fade away has not gone. It’s just not as vocal or as active as previous. I’ve gotten to a place where “if a car hit me and I died, I’d be okay.” Or “if Russia dropped a nuclear bomb on California, they better do it where I’m not limping away.”

The BF doesn’t like those kinds of statements but… It’s how I feel.

The title is the last time I wrote. I stopped my year long project at my hubby’s birthday. The holidays just got me overwhelmed. (It’s amazing how little things can become overwhelming tasks for me.)