So.
Dad has duodenal cancer. It's contained and not spreading, but it's still cancer. He has already been in the hospital for 12 days, stuck with needles and tubes. He is going to be moved to the UK at some point for an operation but we still don't know when. And this cancer grows.
John is 3,700 miles away and I miss him so fucking much. It will have been 6 months apart by the time I see him again. I hate this distance.
Owen is dating Isla, and Emma is threatening to break all his bones if he hurts her. Was my significant hurt not enough to warrant bone-breaking? That relationship and subsequent encounters fucked me up. I was not okay, and apparently that's fine.
My workload is stressful. Three 3000-word essays and associated 10-minute presentations, a group cruise report and a <20-page individual report, a <10-page report, a 400-500-word popular science article, plus dissertation work. I have an extension for Falmouth, but I can still feel the panic creeping up my throat inch by inch. Failure is imminent.
I don't want it.
