Another chapter in the never ending story comes to a close and I go home again. I was 36 when I moved out of that house (April 2008) and lets say for the last 10-11 years I was miserable pretty much every second I was there. Then after my mother’s cancer I was there to watch her every other Friday for… what was it… eight more years? Now for the last five months it’s been 24 out of every 72 hours, approximately. I honestly can’t put into words how much just being in the house hurts me. That’s not even considering my parents’ health situations, which by themselves are soul crushing. Just being in that house makes me miserable.
I’m going back tomorrow night because why not just destroy my soul while I have the chance, right? I know it’s the right thing to do, and I know I have to do it and I know and I know and I know. Being the right thing doesn’t change the fact that the house itself is my personal hell.
The overnights should be ending soon. Unless the universe is fucking with us, hard… and I am not willing to discount that as a possibility, it should be ending soon.
Not soon enough.
…and I go back tomorrow night.