So much for getting it together
Monday night. Any semblance of order and self-control is gone at this point. I'm freaking out inside although I've been maintaining admirably well outwardly. I'm scared and I'm turning to (terrible) food as a comfort because, well, because I don't really have anything else that works as well. Sad, but true. Thirty-seven years of using food isn't the right thing, but it's keeping me sane and, at this point, that's about all I can hope for, I think. I know I need to stop, I know that I can, but not right now. Not until things are better with my dad. I just threw things into my suitcase and my prepared meals into bags, and threw the lot of it into the car. I haven't prepared in advance at all for being gone and I know that a lot of it is simply because I don't want to face this whole situation, but part of it is the disease of apathy, lethargy, and losing the will to want to improve. I have sparks of the old me (or is that the new me?) but I think she's tired of fighting this thing, at least for now. Right now, it's all about survival, kids, and it's not pretty.