Runaway

I totally freaked out yesterday.  In my head, I was packing my belongings into my (very sensible) Civic, grabbing my (aging) boxer and heading out.  To where?  Don’t know.  Doesn’t really matter.  Just away from here.

One of the gifts of being sober (read: being able to think rationally on a consistent basis) is that I realize that, while these feelings are real, they are not reality.  I don’t really want to leave.  And, in the above scenario, I would have forgotten Monkito & Milo and would have had to turn around to come back and get them anyway.

This urge to run away directly relates to losing Blat.  I couldn’t control that loss. I saw it happening, and I couldn’t stop it.  I can’t control when (or if) I get pregnant again.  I am facing the typical (for me) concern over finding employment for the summer.  I want to move, but that goal seems to become ever more elusive each time I think I have it pinned down.

My life feels out of control.  I desperately want something look forward to.  I want something to go my way.

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