Sometimes I Just Want to Run Away

Sometimes I just want to run away. Not run away from my husband or my kids even, but just run away. Start over somewhere new.  As if things would be different or somehow better in another location.

I feel like that now.  I have an urge to run. I have a husband I love immensely, four amazing children and we have a beautiful home that we got an awesome deal on. It was a miracle of sorts that we found this awesome 3100 sq foot house in our price range at the exact time we needed to move. I KNOW finding this good of a deal is not likely again. I KNOW this is where I belong, but still… sometimes… I just want to go away.

Taking care of my Mom’s garden and animals this past week has been painful in a way I had not anticipated. I miss my Dad ALOT, despite making the changes I felt I needed to. I removed his picture from the wallpaper on my phone. It’s been there for over a year. It was a picture of my husband and my father holding the giant hamburger cake that I made them for Father’s Day last year.  I feel guilty about it, both ways. I feel guilty that I’m spending so much energy mourning him, I have four kids and a husband who also need my energy. I feel guilty removing it and trying to move on, I deserve to feel this. I think it is just a part of grief…

When my husband was in Iraq, I saw a therapist. She told me that worry does not equal love. Actually, she said I didn’t really have a problem that needed therapy. She said what I was feeling was real and valid and to go get medicated to take the edge off….

When I am at my Mom’s house and my Dad is not there it is very real and a very fresh, raw feeling sorrow. I am not sorry for how things ended up. My Dad was a good man, a godly man. I have always had a jaded view of religious people. I’ve been in a lot of churches. I’ve seen a lot of so called Christians living in less than a godly manner. He wasn’t one of those people. He was a real man of God, living 100% the way he thought was right by God. He spent his last morning on Earth in his garden, a place he loved. He drank a Coke with my Mom, and I have been ever grateful that they were not fighting. She loves the drama in a way I will never understand.  He went inside, changed out of gardening clothes, sat down in his recliner and died. He didn’t take out a family on the highway. He didn’t die in front of the grandkids. He had a nice morning. We saw him 3 times that week which is unusual.  Like I said, he went in a good way.

I just miss him. I’m sad I won’t be able to see him again. I’m sad that my 2 year old won’t ever know a Grandpa. I’m sorry that my sister feels she doesn’t have a family. I’m sorry she was being such a bitch at the hospital ER the day he died. I’m sorry that regardless of the fact that my parents were raising her child and had given her many, many cars and buckets of money that she doesn’t feel she has a home to go to or a family to lean on.

My husband talks of moving away. We’ve always said we hope to retire someplace with blue water and white sand.  I doubt that there is solace there either.  I guess this is something I need to find inside myself. And I am looking.

I am very much hurting. The good news is I am not eating my feelings. I am not bottling up my pain under half a pizza or a box of donuts. Eating correctly is no longer an option. Getting healthier is no longer a choice. If I want to live to hold my grandbabies in my arms, I’m going to have to get healthier. If I want to grow old with my husband, I have to get healthy. So, I’m doing this one day at at time. Pushing on through to the healthy side.

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