I’ve hung my bra on the door…I guess I’m home.

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Being forced to move house would be stressful for most people, but when one has a number of physical and mental health problems, the situation takes on elements of torture and sheer agony.

There isn’t any place on my body that doesn’t hurt.

My main job yesterday during the move from one house to another was to try to keep the kids occupied and out of the way. I did a poor job and ended up falling apart in town, sobbing uncontrollably in Wilkos; cold and wet from the rain and feeling very alone and without a place to safely hide and dissolve.

I wanted to have energy today to get things sorted in the new place…which I’m sure I’ll eventually get used to, as one does (right now it’s just a weird, uncomfortable place and I have that overwhelming feeling of ‘I just want to go home’). But, I have no energy and can’t even be bothered to eat. And, I wanted to write more here, but my brain is now fogging up and pretty soon I’ll be in that monosyllabic place where all I can do is point and grunt. Pain has a way of reverting me to a cavewoman.

At least the kids like the new house and, even though my grand ideas of being able to sort it out and tidy up and make it a show place of beauty just isn’t going to happen, there’s a roof over our heads and walls to keep out the world. Time and life, as it relentlessly does, will go on.

Yeah, ending this post now. It’s something in my control to end.

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