I am so careful

Too careful.

Not careful at all.

Reckless, even.

I worry. I worry fervently. I toss and turn in my swallowing, enveloping worry, like being sucked in by a giant marshmallow. With a sinking, suffocating feeling (of marshmallow between toes.)
I worry about my actions sometimes. I stress over them, I agonise over my actions, drive myself mad, wondering about the social nuances, the conditions of my love, judgements, the repercussions, the thoughts of others, my own thoughts, global warming, taxes, sex, I worry about animal rights too. I try to be rational, try to be reasonable, and think with all my experience and what the media has taught me, what to do, and what not to do.
So I don't call him. I don't IM him and say "I don't want to be alone," nor do I go to her house and say "why is everything so weird between us?" and I don't ask him "do you just allude to suicide to get a reaction out of me?" and I don't ask him "will you kick me out if I don't do the dishes more often?" and I don't ask him "will you always love me now that you've got a new daughter?" and I most certainly do not ask him "if I told you I was leaving in a few months, would you want to end all this now?"
I don't know why I don't ask. I know I would never get the truth, even if it's only because so much of the fear is unfounded, and I would get laughed at. No one tells me anything, anyway.
My mum knew my kitty was sick. So very sick, and she didn't tell me.
And you know what, she knew how sick she was, too. She knew, she knew, she fucking KNEW, and she didn't tell me she knew she was on death's door.
I actually honestly thought that she'd still be alive now. But it's been like a month and three weeks and it doesn't feel real yet. Not at all.
I sorta imagine scenarios, saying to people "oh my mother passed away" and it feels like a lie. A soothing lie. Just a big blanket lie to avoid explaining a complicated series of interconnecting events.

ugh how did this post end up here.
fuck.