I am too hot

Unless I have a nearly constant sip-sip-sip of liquid and the fan blowing directly on me, I can hardly bear it.  It is finally cooling off here and the outside temperature is rarely above 90 degrees.  There have been a few days, and nights, when it was only in the upper 70s. 

Bliss.  Pure, unadulterated bliss.  Well, it is/was for the times I could be outdoors, and on those days I do stay out in the yard somewhere, sitting and reading in the shade of the one remaining tree that is left.  When the insects are too troublesome, I come indoors, get a glass of water and plop myself down in front of the fan. 

I am guessing that the reason the furnace is on round the clock is that the temperatures are no longer as if we were sitting in the middle of Death Valley and it is marginally cooler outside.  I guess that it does not matter that it is still warmer inside than outside.  I can hardly imagine what the utility bills must be.  Lordy.

I hate to even mention any of the new, bizarre things that are happening, but I probably should, because this writing here is becoming a kind of documentation, a record of what happens.  It is just that I weary of the constant and ever-increasing list of weird crap.  I deal with them/it.  I adapt to whatever form the new rules take.  I adapt again when they change in the next moment and then change again.  OK, so a small example, of just a new thing, is that today the telephone has been ringing twice and then the caller hangs up.  I let the first half-dozen go and then used the "star-69" function to check the next half-dozen, or so.  Like some insane, pulp-horror film practical joke, the calls are coming from inside the house.  I know that because they all originate from the third line here. 

I am totally cracking up because there is not any reason for someone who is not me to be calling and then hanging up.  And, I should not be laughing (even though it is an entirely internal process, except for the smiling), because this is another manifestation of the decline about which no discussion or mention is allowed.  I have never been a person to use laughter to ease my discomfort, but that seems to be the behavior into which I am slipping more and more often. 

Eventually I will have to force the issue, but that is absolutely not something to which I am looking forward.  Nope.  I mean, when the times come that it can no longer be ignored, I will do what I have to do, including taking legal control of the aspects of our life that need that to happen.  But, I am not happy about that prospect and it is going to take my life from the upper levels of hell directly to the depths.  Then, I factor in that it must, at least once in a damn time, be distressing for someone who is not me, to be experiencing all of this; I mean, there must be some self-awareness about the process at least once in a while.  It simply is not possible that I am the only one suffering here.  It just keeps getting worse and I marvel at all of the other people who have learned to cope with this kind of thing.  You know, I am willing to do this, but I still wish most days that it would just go away, disappear.  And, then, I feel guilty when I think of how close I was to leaving here and making a new life.  I was making the final arrangements and was, literally, only a couple of weeks from making my escape.  So close.

That quality of documentation was not my intent.  I chose to write here to work out my own issues, my own, personally-driven inner-process work.  For that, it is working well.  I come here, write and it helps me release everything negative or stressful or heartbreaking that happens, most especially the heartbreaking stuff.  Just writing that brings the stupid, old tears, the ones that are my way of mourning the loss of so much of what I hoped that my life would have.  There are times when the sadness overwhelms me and I fear that I might not be able to go on. 

Then, I recover a bit, come here, write it all out and, whilst it never gets better and writing will certainly do nothing to facilitate any change with anyone, it comforts me in a life that does not offer any other form or measure of comfort or release.  But, at least, I am less frightened when I write and get rid of everything.  That is especially important now that I am stuck here, needing to deal with the decline of someone who is not me.  Writing, divesting myself of the fear, worry and pain makes it possible to make it through most days.  The really terrible things will never be shared here.  I keep them written down, of course, but in a more private place. 

I think that my traveling schedule for the next several weeks is a consequence of understanding that 'here' is not going to get any better and that if I want to go to the two places that have waited decades for me to plan travel, now is the time.  To wait even a few more months might be too late.  Maybe it is already too late.  I just cannot decide, and like any other self-deceiver, I am putting off to the distant tomorrows what I cannot handle today.  If it were just not so fucking hot, I could probably think more clearly and make plans that make sense.  Instead, I am running away.  Fuck.  So be it.  I do not leave for nearly two weeks and anything can happen and probably will.  Fuck.