The Overnight Bag
God, it took eight cups of strong black coffee to stop shaking enough to type.
Yidaho's sleeping off the drink binge in the room with the clean washing in, so I couldn't get dressed or go out, despite a huuuuuuuuuge need for restorative fried foodstuffs at a greasy caff somewhere.
At least I thought I couldn't get dressed, till I found the bag I had ready packed with a change of clothes and a sleeping bag in the box room. The one I'd gotten ready last week in case anything at home got too much and I needed to get out of the house in a hurry. In case sleeping in the car, or driving 75 miles to my parents' house turned out to be preferable than staying in the house another minute.
How weird a life, is that, to have an overnight bag ready?
I've spent all my sober hours wondering if I've done the right thing, why I'm splitting up with someone whom I miss so much and whom I really really don't want to hurt.
But I look at that bag (or rather the contents, which I'm wearing now) and it must be the right thing. Who could spend their days in the box room next to a 'mental emergency' overnight bag and not go insane?