In Which I Spill

The only thing really keeping me where I am right now is 35 lbs of white fluff and the fact that she needs me,

And if I leave now I can't take her with me unless I accept a place in a house that may not be as nice as I'd like.
Also, I can't physically move by myself. Well, I can, actually but I'd need a day to do it.

I can't live like a twelve year old in her parent's house with a bedtime and child's rules. I came here to get better and I am NOT getting better. I'm getting worse. Worse and worse. There's not enough daylight and I can't get out of bed. I don't have a sense of belonging except for ten by twelve square feet, which becomes my refuge from the rest of the world, and it's borrowed.
I need a life back.
I didn't realize how much this move would hurt my personal sense of dignity until now. I can't look myself in the mirror right now without a little bit of loathing because I feel trapped. I had hoped maybe living here would mean I'd get along better with my family having to be with them all the time but they're around me In Passing, making it hard for me to settle myself anywhere or do anything according to my own pacing, but also not really Being There either. Other than reminding me to get something else done I hardly speak to them, but I have little enough to talk about that doesn't get a response of disapproval.

Dolls. Fantasy writing. My "frivolous" therapy art and crafting.

None of it technically "productive".

Okay, fine. No, art is of no practical use to anyone. But it's been keeping me sane and for a little while every few days I get to be happy. No more pain, no more numbness, no more misery, Happy. I get to enjoy myself and feel happy. That hardly ever happens to me so I'll take it where I can get it, thanks, whether it's "Productive" or not, because my Will To Live is wayyy more important to me and Productivity or school or anything else.

If there were someone else who would take daily care of the dog I love, I'd be gone.