slowly. Like an old house. At least my world is.

It certainly doesn’t start with the Kid’s dad, but he has a shit ton to do with it. Right now, I feel just like my 21 year old self. Terrified most of the time. Jumping at shadows and panicky over everything. I have less than a month to figure out how we’re going to live on no money and where we’re going to live when our lease is up. 21 year old me had the same problem when the Kid’s dad left us 6 months behind on bills.

And now I feel the same urge to run. Run as far away as I can. Get away from him, get away from the constant fear. Get to a place where I’m not terrified by every red haired person or car doors slamming or baseball caps. (it makes sense in my head, really). Get somewhere where I can breathe and relax and not worry all the time. What’s really funny is, I’m not a worrier. I’m not normally one of those people who wastes energy on what horrible things might happen. But now, I freak out if the Kid is 10 minutes late getting home from school. I can’t be around people (even ones that I love and adore like Ruth and CJ) for long because it interrupts my brain’s campaign of Constant Vigilance! when I try to be social.

I dream of running away to wide a open desert. Of a little shack on hill where I can see anyone coming for miles and miles. I want to be in a place where the biggest things I have to fear are scorpions and rattlesnakes and sunburn, instead of violence and poverty and homelessness and hunger.

I ran away from all this before. And we did alright for a long time. But damn if 13 years of reality and a busted economy don’t make a girl a wee bit more pessimistic at 34 than at 21.