I'm a home-body. I love being home. I love being in my space, surrounded by my stuff. Even when the chaos gets too much it's still manageable when I set my mind to it.
But, I don't have anything that's just mine: a room, a chair, a corner. A comfortable place to read. A door to close. Every inch of space is shared by everyone else. Sometimes, just to talk on the phone I hide in my bathroom or up on one of the kid's beds. I wish that I could find that space that was only for me sometimes - the thought of it dangles in front of me as if somehow having it would make everything better.
But what I do have, most of the time, is me. I'm my space, my haven, my escape. That's why this never-ending injury is harder than it should be. My body can't help me disappear right now. That's why too much anxiety was unbearable - I wasn't safe for myself anymore.
Right now I'm feeling too on edge. Too tired yet wired. Too overwrought with no coping mechanisms. I lie in bed exhausted but can't sleep. My muscles are cramped and aching but I can't stretch. My mind is starting to spin again and I dread being back in that place.
I keep thinking if I had time alone with no responsibilities, if I had a place to escape to, if I could just get out of all I'm in right now, even for a little while, it would only get better.
The old escape fantasy. It's a lovely place to visit. I know better though.