Where I feel like a badass and still am pissy.

600 swings - I think the first 2 sets (one minute sets as usual, approx 40 reps in a swing set, 20 reps in a snacth set) were with the 8kg, one set of swings and one of snatches, then I switched up to the 12kg, where I alternated between single transfers, and swinging 5 or 10 times per arm before transferring. Do I make sense? Sometimes I feel like I don't make any sense when I try to describe my routines. I never plan before hand what I'm going to do, and then if I don't blog right away, I forget exactly what the breakdown was. Anyway, somewhere in there I got 14o swings with the 16kg. Singles. One full one minute set (OUCH) and then the last 100 swings were with the 16- broken down in 30 second sets. My grip was shot towards the end. In fact, it's hurting even to type. I wish the handle wasn't so wide on the 16kg. I have tiny ass hands. 

I am fucking exhausted. I can't even begin to verbalize it - there's just so much expected of me these days, it takes superhuman planning to carve out any time for myself whatsoever. I have had moments where I have honestly wondered if I'm going to wind up in a psych ward for a few days. It's been that bad. And it's nothing I can speak of to my family or even that many people close to me. I'm raved about as the good daughter, the good wife, I'm expected to play my dutiful role and not complain. Most days I just feel so very alone. In the beginning, when you have a sick family member, people rush in to help. They call all the time, bring food, offer to take meals. But as time goes on, the novelty wears off. No one calls - not even the person who IS sick. So my Dad sits alone most days, staring off into space. I take on the responsibility of entertaining him, keeping him busy. My mom is hanging by a thread, and I feel I have to help her. I know I have to help her. But it's just her and me. No one calls me anymore. (I'm not counting you, Hillary. You were like, the only one to call and say 'please let me help') I'm starting to feel a little bitter. There are women who I truly thought were my friends, and it's like I don't exist. 

A lot of times people don't know what to say. They don't want to hear anything depressing. I never know what to say when people do ask how things are. Do they want the truth? Do they want to know that my Dad has gone through a complete personality change? Do they want to know that he takes his anger and frustration out on me and my Mom? That he has suffered brain damage from the tumors and will never be the same? And finally, despite this good news, do they want the balls out truth - that this disease is not curable, and it will kill him eventually. 

No, no one wants to hear it. But that's what it is. It's a terrible, ugly disease that takes over everyone's life. We are all consumed. And we are all very much alone. I wish I blog this on the CaringBridge site, but God forbid. I have to blow sunshine out my ass there, when most days, I want to cry.