I can’t do today.
I’m recovering, but I am still sick.
Ruthie thinks she’s going to get stolen.
Nata’s absence is not quite like knives, but it’s in that range.
It’s too much.
And I am afraid actually that I am so stressed and so rundown that I will go to school and catch the next microbe or six circulating around school and then I will have three more weeks of too much to cope with.
I thought it wouldn’t be so hard today. I thought things were getting easier. They are getting easier. This is easier.
So I’m staying home again. Which is also hard. Because I am afraid of anyone knowing I am sick. I get these little flashes in my head of being beaten. The whole process of writing a formal letter asking for leave and sending it in with a colleague—which is how it is done here—is rife with anxiety. But it’s doable. I can do that. It’s one more trigger, but it’s not the worst possible trigger.
That’s today. It is too much. I thought it wouldn’t be, but it is.