Fragile.



Fragile, the word that currently describes and defines me. It isn’t the rather lovely fragile that is used to describe a delicate piece of bone china, I’m more stoneware than that. Or the petals of a spring flower, when I was nine my nan told me I had thighs like tree trunks. 

My fragile is more the mental kind, one careless word and I might shatter into a million pieces, I’m already in about a hundred. My “negativity” is bringing Mike down. The Mike who now feels so much better (everyone celebrate because I can’t!), who now feels like himself again and who can’t understand why I don’t. 

The atmosphere has been at times “prickly” over the last couple of days. Things have been said in anger that I will not repeat. 

Mike is having another dialysis session, four hours on the machine today. If Wednesday is anything to go by he’ll be home at 7:30 this evening having left at 11:45 when his transport arrived. No different to him going out to work, except he doesn’t get paid (Mike’s quote not mine.) He tells everyone on FB that he is getting along okay (which he is) and that I’m struggling (which I am). It is treated like a case of man ‘flu almost. Something that will soon be gotten over. That’s the way Mike sees it, three months of going to the hospital three times a week for dialysis. Then, after a bit of training, the rest of the time DIY at home to suit him, which is fantastic compared with the hours at the hospital. Bad cop sees something different. I cannot articulate the way I am feeling inside which is frustrating. 

I’m depressed, suffering from anxiety and a guilt that I can’t be happy that Mike is feeling better.