Winter Has Arrived...Here to Stay?

Not quite 10 in the AM here on a Friday as I sit in the midst of the squalor that is now my daily life, anger and depression fighting for control of a life now shattered.   My word of the day...function, as in trying to.   Something has too give as I  cannot continue down the road that now spreads out before me on the horizon as these two powerful emotions wrestle for the right to determine my path forward into a future that seems  a dead end fraught with despair filled with unavoidable pitfalls that will see me living and dying alone, no one there when old age signals the final curtain which ends a person's life. Winter has arrived in more than one way...outside the weather is cold, though the sun shines through the door into my small basement apartment suggesting a warmth that is not really there, a step outside revealing the cold glaring truth of the day.  Inside my heart grows cold, my mind feeling as if it is ready to explode, sanity held onto just barely, daily chores at times simply to much to face.

On today's list...laundry as I am out of anything that vaguely resembles clean cloths.  I had saved up a bowl full of quarters for this task, but had to use those when checks meant for my hands were delayed in their arrival, others playing games with my well being.  Have the laundry soap, but will have to head to a bank for a couple rolls of quarters, then spend a sizable chunk of my day sitting in a laundromat, the surroundings magnifying the sadness of my situation, my life at almost 59.   Should go grocery shopping, but have reached a point where cooking something to eat is simply to much work, no longer an enjoyable task like it once was.  My kitchen is not a real kitchen, though it's size is fine.  I have almost no cabinets, and neither the stove or refrigerator are of a normal size, both reminders of a long time ago when I moved into a similar space at the age of eighteen in the hopes of escaping the abuse that was the family and house in which I had grown up.

Perhaps that is a part of my depression....finding myself at the age of 59 in an almost identical space to the one I first moved into all those decades ago.  The resemblance is a triggering one, brings back memories of my father still interfering in my life, still finding ways in which to weave his special brand of abuse into my life.   Now like then, just want to be LEFT ALONE too pick up the shattered pieces of my life, my marriage and figure out a way forward.  I want chapters ended, final chapters written so that books can be put upon a shelf never to be looked at again, the memories to painful for a second read.

It is said time heals all wounds...trust me, that is not true.  Some wounds never end.  They may scab over, but they are still there just under the surface till the next time an incident, or a person, or a series of abuses pick that scab and it all comes back.