In less than an hour, it will be Friday which means Jen and [redacted] will be on the A Trail for only 3 1/2 more days. It seems like ages, but I guess I’m doing okay about the worrying.

Maybe I’m beginning to have some trust — but that itself scares me. My coping mechanism about bad things happening has always been to go to the worst case scenario. I refuse to do that these days, even if it’s a question of really fighting it.

Weird, huh?

I saw Susan tonight for the first time in three weeks. We just talked — me mostly. Sometimes I wonder why I even go — or why she sees me at no charge. It’s been months.

What she provides is unconditional acceptance. I don’t think I’ve ever had that before. And I think she genuinely likes me. Sometimes I feel as if I’m just griping, but tonight she said that I’ve been in “survival mode” most of my adult life and maybe that’s why I can’t figure out what I really want from / in life. I haven’t had the time … But I’m still in the same mode and more hurt than ever about it because I actually, for a while, had the audacity to think I was pulling out of it.

I guess I should be writing because it’s the only thing I can think of to do. Maybe that makes writing what I really want. But I don’t know.

Shit. I should know, shouldn’t I?

If all goes well, (hmm), Jen and I will be heading for Rhode Island in about two weeks. I really, really want to see Fran and to have her meet David and Jen as adults. It’s really important to me.

How the heck I’m going to come up with the money to do it is beyond me. And then there’s the courage part and the strength (physical). I need to see if we can leave at noon on Thursday so we can get there Friday and whether Hollie can really take care of the herd.

I think Mrs. PB is really sick — she’s looking all raggedy, and Barbara said she hasn’t been going in to eat every night. I hope none of the other animals in the neighborhood have gotten to her and that, if she’s sick, she’s not suffering. I wish I could help her, but I don’t know how I can.

Silly cat — but I love her.

So, does any of this rambling tell me who I am or what I want?
Kathleen A. Gagne