It’s hard to speak ill of the living. It’s hard to speak ill of someone people you care about love. But it’s so, so, so hard to get help without it. I wish so many well-meaning comfortable, safe people would stop asking me to relive things I haven’t yet had the chance to process, so they can know how serious and legitimate my pain is.

How many details do they really need? I recognized I needed to leave. I left. Staying gone will take help, but I’ve been doing what I can to minimize the emotional damage done to my son by all of this upheaval, and all that led up to it. It doesn’t feel right to discuss this with strangers, whether they’re on the internet, on the phone or in person. I haven’t found the words or tools or strength to talk about this with my son yet much, except for the most basic elements. This isn’t easy for me.

It’s always been easier for me to write about my past and not my present. Maybe it takes me a few years to make sense of things. Maybe it takes me that long to forgive myself for being human and making mistakes. The present feels too personal, too real, in a way that the most intimate stories of my childhood don’t.

We’ve found an apartment complex willing to work around my income issues (my income is through my Patreon here) not being standard W-2 fare, but they want a substantial upfront deposit. If you can help us with this, please, please do. I have a Go Fund Me page which you can share here. I’ve been trying to work with local charities but actually getting you into a home right away isn’t something they can do, and they definitely can’t keep us in a neighborhood that’s safe, has good walkability, and keeps Kid in the school that’s made him so happy, and where he’s made friends.

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