Thursday some more. 4:30 pm.
My children (all in their twenties - but of course they are still my children) really do love me.
How do I know this? Because when they saw that I was taking an emotional nose-dive, but didn't realize it, they stepped in. They insisted I go to the doctor. And they've been keeping a close eye on me ever since. I have wonderful children.
I wasn't exactly appreciative at first. Actually, I was freaked out. And angry. I splattered raw emotion all over my poor daughter who had been appointed by the others (who live far away) to come and gently talk to me. She was wonderful. I wasn't. Quite the opposite. And I am sorry.
In the four or five days until I could get a doctor's appointment, I cried. Slept. Wept. Slept. Wailed. Slept. Scribbled down my feelings. Slept. Scribbled More. Slept. My poor husband and son, who live with me, had to tiptoe around me. I am sorry, again.
What poured out of my pen? Bottled up fears. Bottled up sorrows. Bottled up exhaustion. Bottled up memories.
I knew I was tired. I knew I was getting forgetful - which I had put down to being tired, because the only other reason I could think of was too terrifying for me to contemplate.
I also knew that while sometimes I did over-react to relatively small things, overall I was pretty non-reactive. I told myself (at least I hoped) that I was actually getting more mature, less emotional, as I aged. And perhaps getting mature spiritually, too: that maybe I was finally learning to trust Father. So that things didn't get me as excited as before. (But what I didn't notice was that it was mainly my cheerful nature that was disappearing). Overall, I was actually pretty pleased with myself.
But cracks were forming.
And when my daughters expressed their concern, the bottle I'd been carefully, secretly, subconsciously pouring things into for a long time, pretty much shattered.