I logged into this account in December 2021 and found this, unfinished.
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I've barely blogged in the last few years, post dead parents, and I fear I've lost what little knack I had. But, unlike my sexual violence blog, there's no audience in mind here, no message to impart, so. I'll just write.
It's October. Ughtober I should perhaps call it: both parents' birthdays (16th and 24th) and then their wedding anniversary (25th). The days between feel in limbo. Almost as though I should be in rent, black clothes, not allowed to smile until the 26th, on which day I must spring back, perky and delightful, just in time for my boyfriend's birthday on the 27th. As I said: ugh.
And god I'm tired. Because I have a chronic illness? Because being sad takes it out of one? Because I treat myself like a detainee of the American government, kept perpetually sleep deprived? Yes. All of that. And everything else.
Joshy will be 18 in eight weeks time. (An adult, technically. When I became his mother, I was still a child, technically.) Yesterday we finally reached a conclusion in the absolute *saga* of Will This Kid Accept The Offer Of A Partial Restart To His A-Levels, Or Stubbornly Persist In Ruining His Life? And mercifully it was the former. He's continuing the second year of one subject, restarting another in the first year, and ditching his third subject for another entirely. Which will hopefully result in better grades, and give him more time and less pressure to work on his mental health. It's not entirely a done deal, however. There'll be a progress review in five weeks to ensure he's a) caught up on everything for all three subjects, and b) achieving 95% attendance. Both of these require significant parental prodding. Which I don't feel capable of right now. How to pull it out of the bag?
I mean, step one is definitely sleep.
