Member-only story
Why Am I Finding It Difficult to Articulate My Thoughts
When I put fingers to the keyboard, I stall
Am I pretending I’m okay now — kidding myself that I’m over the grief?
I guess it’s the switching from we to me has created this dilemma. I’m not sure who I am or how to get out of this jam, surviving from one pension check to the next; never knowing when I can escape this trap of poverty.
Yes, I’m announcing it for all to hear. I can’t bear to read stories where people can socialize, travel, jump into their car to visit friends or meet for lunch, or join a book club, or go to the library.
I live miles away up a dirt track that demands an SUV with higher ground clearance. The road surface is so bad an ordinary car could end up with a battered oil sump.
I’m stuck at home, a prisoner of circumstance; dependent on the goodwill of the old acquaintance of my late husband for a roof over my head — I can’t even afford to pay rent. On top of that, the man’s a narcissist and thrives on negativity.
For instance, I put more than enough petrol in his car for my weekly shopping — the only time I ever get away from this ramshackle cottage. Yet he accuses me behind my back of being a taker.
