The last time things got rough, The Boy and I moved clear across the country in the middle of the night. We told our jobs, the landlord, and a few close friends then packed the pets and everything that fit in a truck. As world got around the emails and phone calls came with roughly the same question: Why did you leave your support system?
What can I say? I've taken care of myself for so long, I don't know how to use a support system without feeling like a burden. The Boy is my support system. He asked for the job, and I gave it to him. It wasn't easy, but I did it. The Plastic Bubble now stretches just enough to accommodate The Boy, the dog, and the cat, but that's at maximum capacity.
Some time has passed since we got here. I've made new friends and have been coaxed into Social Networks which allow me to keep in touch with those I left behind. And here I am, once again, temporarily avoiding them all because one day it will be easier for me to say the words, "My father died," than to currently say, "My father is dying."
I have a fake Twitter account I use for Trolling. I know it's immature, but when things get really awful, I take my frustration out on idiots who idolize Sarah Palin and Ayn Rand. Just yesterday, I got a Tweet from a kind but complete stranger who follows that account. He wanted to know where I've been and If I'm OK. Oh, for Fuck's Sake. Not even Waldo could stay hidden these days...