My mother is 89 years old, and just now, she has a medical issue. She has some doctor's appointments coming up. There is nothing I can do for her but be with her. That is all we can ever do, I guess. Hence my anxiety. It is about that and about my own well-being, too. Last night, I took a Xanax to sleep. It helped. . . for awhile. But they wear off, and what are you to do, take another?
All my plans have changed. There will be no late summer vacation trips, I think. All the things put off will stay put off for another year. If I'm lucky.
I shouldn't write when I am bummed. Other people's troubles are not interesting. Stoicism is good. It is a form of toxic masculinity, I've read, but it is what is all we have sometimes.
That and some means of escape. Like Houdini, though, the last escape is always a failure.
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