Running away and run on sentences, but no jogging

The dog ran away. Not that I blame her, really. I was thinking about how lovely it would be to do just that, myself, except that all my stuff is here. It would just be so much easier if everyone else ran away. Here I've been discouraging that sort of thing all these years, and now I find that I may have been on the very precipice of Something Grand. Blast it all.

I should probably care more, about the dog, but I haven't the energy. Things around here have gotten a tad bit rocky lately. Living with Addiction in the house is very like having a separate entity cohabiting among the family. It's not usually like those commercials. Have you seen those commercials? You have a deranged teenager dumping out his mother's purse looking for pills, while yelling incoherently. The bewildered mamma weeps pitifully, and the father bravely tries to intervene. You've seen them. Living with Addiction is not like that. It's more like a favorite sitcom that makes you laugh and sucks you in....until you start to realize that it isn't funny anymore, not at all, but you can't really recall where it began to go awry, and by then it's too difficult to identify which parts of the plot line are normal and familiar, and which are downright twisted. It's like that.

It's foul language delivered with no apparent provocation, but with a violent intensity that immediately causes all air from the room to vanish. It's wondering if one's child truly is capable of the monumental display of willpower necessary to freeze himself to death on the driveway....then fearing that, indeed, he may prove to be successful. Then, coaxing him back into warmth for the simple expedient of going to bed myself. It's discussions that have no ground-rules, and dialogue without reason. It's longing to hold that baby boy and make everything ok, while simultaneously doing battle with him , his addiction, and myself.

I also find that I am sorely tempted to eat an entire sleeve of Ritz crackers with Strawberry jam. Do you know that amounts to a solid two days of calories? True, that. I forced myself to trudge on the treadmill this morning as a nod to my fitness goals. I've been pounding coffee the rest of the day, as a nod to my late night. I don't really know when the stifling grief-like fog settled in, but I'm finding it terribly inconvenient just now.

It's very wearying. I don't think I could run away if I wanted to. Lucky dog.