Not the good kind either. At the time, it was simply an event. A relief. A miracle? Yeah, a miracle, too I guess. (So how can it be bad?) That morning, I did not wake up. As a matter of fact, I had only slept about three hours a night in the few days leading up to our departure; the final night, not a wink. There were things to do; last minute boxes to pack and prepare for shipping (important things that were set aside to either send by Priority mail or carry with me on the plane) after the shipping container had been loaded for delivery of our household goods - all of our worldly possessions - to sail across the Pacific Ocean, on it's way to a tiny Hawaiian island.
It was time to go. Rick had found a new job. The bank would be picking up the keys to our foreclosed home - the home of my dreams. Taxi was on it's way. Kids and luggage ready. Hawaii here we come. It was bad timing. I was not prepared for what the future held - and it was all about me... Me and untreated fibromyalgia and bipolar disorder. By the time we had to moved, my meds - if I was even still taking any at the time - were so off that I was running on automatic pilot. I was managing the move, preparing myself and the kids, making sure every last detail was taken care of, by the force of some unknown power. Things had to get done. There was only one person for the job. Me. I was running on pure nerve. When we landed on our tiny island, all I wanted to do was collapse on the tarmac. No such luck.
To be continued...
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