Anxiety

The flu bug knocked me on my ass again yesterday morning while attempting to pack the fragile glass of the distillation equipment for transport to the investment property. Hubs and I have begun calling it, "The Research Center," but that is far from established. So far it is only a piece of inherited investment property. I am in to week 2 of the bug which has been kicking my butt. At this stage, I believe it has progressed to a sinus infection. I dedicated yesterday to sinus washes and my annual lymphatic purge which I do every year when the Cleaver Weed begins its local season. I am feeling better this morning, but. . . I felt better yesterday morning, too. Not much trusting my stamina right now. Sinus infections tend to linger with me, especially when I have been fielding allot of stress.

As I lingered with my misery yesterday afternoon, hubs sent a text asking for information to pass on to his brother so that he and his wife could go and visit the property. I sent the info with encouragement. Their participation/interest is one of the dangling questions in this enterprise. So far they have not seemed interested in any more than the dollar value. It is a seven hour drive from their uppercrust suburban lifestyle. We, in fact, do not know much about them away from the quasi-formal family gatherings. The same family gatherings which passed with Mister Surname. It is far from certain that the two family branches have the strength to remain a family without Mister Surname's bonding element. For sure, I am not overly impressed with their executive prowess or five star vacations they have shared at The Surname family events. I dissociate allot during those kinds of conversations, wherever I encounter them. I would be guilty of not even listening, nor expecting anything from my life to survive the e-toy enhanced conversational expertise. Repeat that I have never known my husband's family outside of the quasi-formal settings.

This morning finds me awash in anxiety that . . . ? ? ? Anxiety is a fissuring devil. It is painting prophecies of doom all over the canvas. I've been here before. This is where I herstorically prepare for flight. The muckety mucks have arrived. Time for me to move on to the next cutting edge. Leave the muckety mucks to rake their own muck. I doesn't want the job. I prefer raking organic muck. Don't know that I could understand executive muck, even if I wanted to.

In addition to that body of politics, eldest son and his significant other have been rearranging here in the Urban Homestead. The areas I was attempting to pack yesterday morning are suddenly full of stuff which was still low priority in my own plans. Zero communication on it. Just a discovery of new junk piles in the midst of my packing efforts, discovered in a fever fog.

Another shove back to the margins of life? Do I stay or do I go?

Plying therapy tools.