Tired.

So I haven't written here in three years. I didn't write here much then either. But I feel the need to write somewhere, so this seems as good a place as any. Tonight I'm laying in a bed in someone else's house, thinking about the wreckage of my life. I'm trying to reconcile the tri-miseries of who I thought I would become, who I thought I was, and who I've actually turned out to be. Losing you has been the most traumatic and awful event of my life. The veil's been torn. All is exposed, and it's terrible to see. I'm packing up your and dad's house and all I can see are these pictures of me as a baby. Pictures of my siblings as babies. And I think of you and how much you must have loved me to even bother having them taken. I can't help but wonder where it all went. I disappointed you. The grand myth of the selfless, dutiful daughter out the window when you needed most to believe. What's my excuse? I was tired. "Love feels no burden, thinks nothing of its trouble, attempts what is above its strength, pleads no excuse for impossibility, for it thinks all things are lawful for itself and all things are possible" - Thomas à Kempis No love. An ungrateful child. I'm sorry, Mama. I thought I was doing my best. I think of you in pain so horrifying that I couldn't register it. I get the flu and I can't stand my life. When I think of your flesh being slowly eaten away, of violent tremors, hallucinations and paranoia, I can't stand the idea that I could watch it at all. I didn't look away. I didn't blink. You died. I'm lonely. I miss you, but I missed you before you died too. I think I've been missing you all of my life.