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Wheat Fields in the Rain 1889 Van Gogh.jpg

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One recent morning, my son said, “I wish I woke up earlier”, and I immediately thought: I wish I woke up someone else.

Everything hurts right now. There isn’t a place my mind can land that doesn’t make me sad or anxious. Legitimately fearsome beasts lurk in shadows parading as pages sent from my lawyer.

I’ve been alone for a long time and I am tired. The longer I’m alone, the more I’m sure I must remain so. I wasted my youth on a tragic marriage.

My heart hurts. My sense of humor has suffered. My enthusiasm is waning.
I just need to sit. And sit. And sit.

My body hurts. There aren’t enough heating pads in the world to soothe my aching form.
I fantasize about heating pads for my head, neck, belly, and back; about heavy blankets to replicate the weight of a man. I am reminded of Temple Grandin and her hug machines.

I keep thinking about aging, and this causes me panic. I’m running out of time. Somehow, time moved me into the Grandma Camp. Wait. Wasn’t I just 25? How am I not 25??
I only have so long before I’m finished here. Holy crap.

Who am I? What do I need? What do I want? What can I do?
External forces have been in control of my life, and I’m doing all I can to take some back.
I’m going to figure this out.
But first, I just need to sit.

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