My life

I feel like I have become a hospice worker, in my own home.  I am reaching the brink of no longer knowing what to do.  I don't know how to handle this.  And it scares me because primal instincts kick in.  Fight or Flight.  I don't know how to fight it.  I don't even know what I would do to fight it, cry?  Yell?  Hit?  So I think run.  Run away.  From everything.  But sadly, with technology, I know that I would be found before I even left.  I don't want to quit my job, so my husband would simply come up here and take me back.  Back to the chaos that is my own home.  And yet not.  Im not in charge, and neither is he.  SHE is.  (with the dogs a close second).  She, who sits in her room eating junk food and take-out.  She, who yells towards us with any and every request, because she can't seem to get up from where she's at.  She, who is slowly destroying my house.  Which by the way is going on the market in the next few weeks.  I'm going to have to discount it because of what she is doing.  I wont even use the spare bathroom anymore because of her.  
And I feel bad, because she is sick, and it's not really her fault.  And yet, so much of it is.  
My vices are swearing, caffeine and food.  I run to them to seek the comfort that they offer.  I'm glad I've never tried a drug in my life, because who knows what I would be doing at this point.  Except every day is the fattest I have ever been.  Mind you, Im 5' 7" and currently weigh 130 lbs.  So Im not huge, but my size 2 pants aren't fitting like they used to.  I try to chew gum and drink water when the urge for food strikes.  But even as I type this, I am drinking a grande white chocolate mocha –a drain on my wallet that sits directly on my hips.  I don't know what to do.  Her sickness is bringing me down, and I dont know how to combat it.
And I feel very selfish, but dammit, the last year and half has been about her.  When can my life finally be about me?

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