So yesterday one of the women that used to help me take care of my grandmother stopped by. She just happened to be in the neighborhood & just stopped in to check & see how I was doing. It was nice. It was pleasant. As soon as she left I collapsed to the ground sobbing & gasping for air. I thought I was better. For the first six months it was multiple times a day. For the next six months it was about once a day. But in the past few months I thought I’d gotten pretty much better, to the point I thought I could fight off the urge enough that I might be able to work at a normal job again. But yesterday made me feel like the only thing I’ve ever done a halfway decent job at is taking care of my Ethel & that now I’m just a useless waste of a human being. Which hardly makes me unique, I think probably 90% of people are, but I still hate the realization I am part of that lot. I still managed to get out of bed this morning & run a couple errands. So I’m not as bad as I could be.
Last Night’s Dream:
I’m at church & in the communion line, the minister are dropping bits of salt into people’s mouths instead of giving out pieces of bread or communion wafers. I guess it’s all the amount of truth we’re capable of digesting; but I don’t feel like I can handle that much truth (that the truth will destroy me because it is what I deserve). I break out of line & hide in the back of the church.