My mother, sliding inelegantly into dementia but remaining in my home, finally did what they all do. She fell, broke herself, and now needs nursing home care.
This happened in the middle of many plans. And now those plans are freed and complicated at the same time.
I'm freed. The plans to move south, away from the rotten winters that are causing real agoraphobia whenever the snow falls, are altered, but still in place, albeit with a fluid timeline.
And I realize, not for the first time, that I have to find my own life. So much has been wrapped up in taking care of her, in taking care of others, that decades have slipped away. I also realize that I don't want that life to include frequent human contact.
It's true. I've never been social, I've never been a people-person, and my belief that people are free to believe what they want wars with my intolerance for stupidity.
I don't want to be a nurse anymore. I do the job well, I smile for the camera and the staff and the residents and the families, but the well is very nearly dry. It takes me longer to recover from each interaction.
So now I have to decide, and move on that decision. I love to write, I love to create worlds that make sense in the end. And I love the solitude of the process.
I'm embarking on a new journey within this week. I have to. One that will give me the aloneness I need as well as income.
This blog will remain for the darker thoughts that push through, but I'll likely create a new one for the writer's journey.
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