I found my datebook from 2007/2008 in the basement this weekend. It's a chronicle of the transition from sharing a house with my elderly mom to the shitstorm that went down just before I joined here.
We were in the process of selling the house after she went into assisted living.
Wasband was on the road and disengaged from pretty much everything I was having to deal with while working full time and going through the stress of helping my mom adjust to her new normal. My life was:
- realtors
- my siblings who decided to start a war with me
- keeping the house in Martha Stewart mode for showings in the middle of the financial meltdown (it took six months to sell)
- moving half our stuff into a temporary rental so he could come off the road and not have to be in Martha Stewart mode
- looking at other houses for us to buy
- spending every weekend doing the "keep" "donate" "send to the dump" routine with my mom and her stuff, she just didn't have the energy to engage, it was heartbreaking and took forever...
- managing the contractors for the house we eventually decided to buy, which turned out to need massive drain work including a new connection to the main sewer line
- shopping for and deciding on finishes, carpet, tile, light fixtures, paint colours, etc etc with a disengaged and grumpy spouse who was texting the OW from the next aisle over in Home Depot
- having the old car die in the middle of it all, in the dead of a really cold, damp, miserable Wet Coast winter
It's page after page of endless to-do lists, and notes on how exhausted I was, having nightmares and getting a lot of migraines, just generally feeling drained and unwell for the entire year before DDay, while trying to keep it together with numerous yoga classes and a semi-regular gym schedule.
My mom started having lots of falls, visits to ER, and endless liquid poop events, and the siblings actually had the balls to make accusations of neglect.
Wasband started his last affair with the in-town sidepiece, shared ALL my family shit with her AND referred her to our massage therapist so every time I went for a desperately needed massage and acupuncture session I had to put my face where hers had been.
Then I got the STD and had a bad reaction to the antibiotics, and spent nearly a week laid up in bed feeling like I was actually going to die.
Reading it all now I'm surprised I didn't wind up in the loony bin. Seriously...
Onward.
[This message edited by FaithFool at 11:49 PM, September 16th (Sunday)]