“In your life, you are the paint, the painter, and the painting.”
If this is true, then I am lead based paint, being used by a toddler for a messy smear of a finger painting, while sucking on my fingers.
Day one of a newly fresh hell for me. I just want to just stay in bed and rot away surfing the web. But I got one task done with getting Visiting Angels to come over so it’s a start.
I don’t want any of this responsibility. I’m such a fuckboi. A 44 year old scared fuckboi. I probably should be doing some DBT to talk me down. But all I do is talk myself down. There is never a solution or a solution that I take.
Not that I have to change and give Dad a catheter. Not that Mom isn’t/can’t help at all. Not that the family had no one we feel we can call on. It’s just the fact that I can’t lift him, that I’m out of shape and can’t dead lift 180lbs like everyone else seems like they can do. How did the nurses do it at the hospital? I’m such a failure has a son and see nothing but more failures ahead for me. Putting dad in a home, even temporarily. What if it’s permanent, how are mom and I going to live together when we can be at each other’s throats at a moments notice. What if they both go in, will I be able to make it or survive? Why isn’t death an option? Instead I’m just going to repeat Wise Mind and try to go to sleep until 4am when I can do it all over again.
I wish I was as confident of the future like this tiger or Drake. At least the drugs are working and I’m not in super panic mode.
Horrible selfie with me laying down. But it is accurate in that I’m just a bloated mess that’s blind to the good things in my life.
I still have some humanity left in me.
Again surprisingly accurate …