The Curmudgeon did well for the past week or two. Then yesterday it all fell apart.

I had to get help to get him off the floor and into bed. He’d pissed his bed and clothes. So I had to strip him of his wet clothes, dress him, and wash all the bedding and his clothes. I did this after I hurt my back again trying to get him up.

He’s been out of it all freaking day.

Therefore, I had to deal with the guy that came to clean the furnace, Something he usually does, even if it is just sitting on the stairs while the guy works.

The Curmudgeon doesn’t want me here. He wants a mother, I am not his mother, I am no one’s mother. I do not have a nurturing spirit, that died with the 8th miscarriage.

All the wine or martinis in the world aren’t enough to make dealing with this, in any way, easy.

“The lifetime divorce rate is roughly 50 percent; for chronically ill people, the rate is 75 percent.” Are where the statistics stand today.

Am I surprised? No, not one bit. I think about it EVERY day.

However, because I quit jobs so many times to take care of my sister when she had cancer, and because now I’m over 60 years of age and out of work for so long, I am unemployable.

In other words, no one wants to hire me because I’m too fucking old.

I have no way to leave and no place to go. I feel as though I have a gun to my head making me stay. I am beyond exhausted both physically and mentally.

I have no joy.