But I'm not. I'm plain fucking miserable.
And I know why.
I've always had the ability to mentally compartmentalize things. I create little boxes for things, and I stuff them into their boxes and mentally hold the lid shut until whatever's inside stops struggling to get out and I can move on to the next thing.
I had managed to do this to my feelings of disappointment of not going to England.
My brother's visit will make that box fling its lid wide open and all the collective nasties that i had convieniently managed to ignore will come flying out. The lids already leaking little bits and pieces out into my psyche. I think that's why I've been so upset the past few days.
I so desperately wanted to go home. I so wanted to see my folks for more than a vacation. I really, really wanted, with all my heart wanted, my parents to see their grandchildren in person, to get to know them, to see them progress and grow. All of the hopes that I had built up over a year and a half were dashed...and when it became too much for me to deal with, I compartmentalized, shut the lid on it, and walked away.
I can't do that now. Now the lid's going to have to come off and I'm going to have to not only face, but deal with, the things that were inside.
That's why my heart is breaking. Because the way things are, I seriously doubt that I will see my father alive again.
That's why I'm miserable. That's the catalyst that led me to thinking about everything else.
My brother's coming to town. I should be happy...but I'm not.