Even though it was mid-June, it was cool down in the basement bedroom. Perfect weather for heavy blankets and comfortable sleep. The new gummies Pete had gotten with THC and CBN were working perfectly. His sleep was so much better. There was that to be grateful for. Actually, there was a lot to be grateful for but he was having a difficult time remembering the items on his gratitude list this morning.
Because this particular morning was Father’s Day, one of his least favorite days of the year. It had been his dream to be a great attentive and loving dad, something that he had never had, but somehow his kids were unhappy. One was drug-addicted. One was beset by a horrible physical malady, and there was nothing he could do to help, other than tell them that he loved them.
So, on this cool June morning, in this extremely comfortable bed Pete asked himself if he really had to get out of bed today. Did he have to get up and address his daughter’s sadness and accusation? Did he have to get up and wonder if his son would ever call? Did he have to get up and view the unending parade of happy Father’s Day faces on Facebook? Did he have to listen to the unrecognizable father-of-the-year stories that would stream endlessly on TV? Couldn’t he just sleep until this day was over?
Or maybe he should just call the Wambulance to take him away to the hospital of heavy hearts and invite everyone to visit for a Petey Pity Party.
Pete stayed in bed a few minutes more and considered his situation. He could be overcome with sadness and sorrow as was his own dad who tried to soften the blows with alcoholic sauce, or he could get up and hold the sadness in his hands and his heart. He could try and forgive himself. He had actually tried to be a good dad as hard as he could and maybe he had tried too hard. At any rate, he could call them and let them know he loved them. He could do that. He could let Carla know that he was OK. That she didn’t need to worry. God knows she had enough on her plate without worrying about him.
He could get up and greet another day. He could retrieve his gratitude list and remember the blessings. He could call off the wambulance and appreciate all that he had. All that he could. Put a cap on the should……..or he could go back to bed which was the most appealing option, kind of, but kind of not. Coffee would help. Carla would help. And his kids, who he loved with every fiber of his being, his kids who were middle-aged adults by now, would just have to care for themselves at least as much as dad did.
— DanielSouthGate
Because this particular morning was Father’s Day, one of his least favorite days of the year. It had been his dream to be a great attentive and loving dad, something that he had never had, but somehow his kids were unhappy. One was drug-addicted. One was beset by a horrible physical malady, and there was nothing he could do to help, other than tell them that he loved them.
So, on this cool June morning, in this extremely comfortable bed Pete asked himself if he really had to get out of bed today. Did he have to get up and address his daughter’s sadness and accusation? Did he have to get up and wonder if his son would ever call? Did he have to get up and view the unending parade of happy Father’s Day faces on Facebook? Did he have to listen to the unrecognizable father-of-the-year stories that would stream endlessly on TV? Couldn’t he just sleep until this day was over?
Or maybe he should just call the Wambulance to take him away to the hospital of heavy hearts and invite everyone to visit for a Petey Pity Party.
Pete stayed in bed a few minutes more and considered his situation. He could be overcome with sadness and sorrow as was his own dad who tried to soften the blows with alcoholic sauce, or he could get up and hold the sadness in his hands and his heart. He could try and forgive himself. He had actually tried to be a good dad as hard as he could and maybe he had tried too hard. At any rate, he could call them and let them know he loved them. He could do that. He could let Carla know that he was OK. That she didn’t need to worry. God knows she had enough on her plate without worrying about him.
He could get up and greet another day. He could retrieve his gratitude list and remember the blessings. He could call off the wambulance and appreciate all that he had. All that he could. Put a cap on the should……..or he could go back to bed which was the most appealing option, kind of, but kind of not. Coffee would help. Carla would help. And his kids, who he loved with every fiber of his being, his kids who were middle-aged adults by now, would just have to care for themselves at least as much as dad did.
— DanielSouthGate
A really good description of the journey a person takes to talk themselves out of depression one more time. Heavy, but good. ---Macoff
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