Honestly, I think the only way I can truly capture how sick - SICK - I am of this all is to tell you how sick I feel most of the time. My stomach aches and burns, my chest is tight and feels at times as though it might literally explode from the sheer pressure of my frustration. And when I am not pushed to the limits - which is not most days, really.. I have a fair number of decent days when there is no yelling, when I feel like I am doing ok by my kids - when I am not pushed into the physical red zone, I am acutely aware of how OLD I feel. My body aches and groans, worn out and exhausted. Worked like a mule is how I feel.

I have not been frank enough, publicly. So here’s truth of the matter: the way we as a family are living is not working.

A while ago, it crossed the line from not good to damaging. School is not working for Edward, the community is not working for any of us, the house is making us feel like rats trapped in an ever-shrinking cage. We are far away from everyone, living on a crazy isolated island with no perspective on what a normal, sane life looks or feels like.

I cannot - CANNOT! even begin to entertain ideas on how we can squeeze any more sane living arrangements out of this house. Dex said, “It’s like we’re living in two rooms.” YAH! Can’t we try —- ? What if we — ? Or maybe we could — ? NO. I have rearranged and rethought and reconfigured and done every possible thing I can to make these rooms be the rooms we need them to be. And, baby, it’s just not working.

And let me be clear, it’s not due to a lack of intense trying on my part, or creative imagination, or whatever. I have tried and tried, then tried again. I have done all but beat my head against the plaster walls, willing them to tear themselves from their granite foundation and reshuffle in some odd mid-19th century contra dance, to resettle in clouds of dust in a semblance of a sane floor plan that will allow us to maneuver through our days with greater ease and comfort.

My mind knows this is not working, on 98% of all possible fronts. And when I try to deny it and tell myself it’s not as bad as I am making it seem, I can gut it out, I can make do, my body reminds me of the same. Gut it out? My gut is screaming, “NO WAY!”