For the few that remain...

...And so what happens now? I step back and punt. I don't let the bastards get me down. I ask for help, especially those times I have no idea what WILL help me. I pull my feet up on the couch and grab the hand he reaches out to me and wait for our dog to lie down and grunt her version of "It's gonna be more than okay"...



I don't want you to be interested in the minutae of my days. Because right now, they mean little unless I'm around someone I trust. I was guilty of putting work above all else, including my own mental health. I hid there, I believed I mattered more than I actually did, and now I have the freedom I never really wanted.



I will learn to want it. I will stop believing (self-righteously) that being a workaholic is a noble addiction; an acceptable one.



No one expects anything from me. For a girl who needs to be needed, that's dangerous. If I don't show up to a place, there might not be any concern. I may or may not be checked on. My home is my refuge, and entry is guarded by the one person who has waited to be allowed to help , and a dog who adores her mama.

I'll cut my losses, and keep the human punctuation marks I picked up along the way.