The Price of Progress

[Part of the Re-Parenting Series]

It’s 9pm.

My moods have taken a dip from unresolved trauma after watching a show that triggered mines in my mind I haven’t unearthed with money I do not have.

I am sad. I am angry. I am confused but too tired to begin tracking and tracing another parental parcel. Maybe the next time it will ship.

I should take an anti-depressant. My heart is palpitating. I can’t breathe but the walls haven’t started to close in.

Let me think.

But if I do, a crash in a few days might entirely dismember my interview that seeks to highlight this issue and inject it with pointed introspection from an intrinsic, insolent(?) mind.

I should take a sleeping pill. So I can wake up tomorrow to keep on keeping on.

What if I forget how to sleep? Won’t this spiral into another spill?

I have no time to cry today because even if I’m learning how to try tearing – I’d need years to process every dingy dam.

I wish I had more time to think and feel.

I wish I could take holidays from healing too.

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