If I could scratch without hives

The hives are back. I would like to take a break from my skin now. It is itchy and painful right now. 

Grief has caused me a lot of issues, but the weirdest has to be hives. It's a histamine type reaction, and I don't want anything to be touching my body, not even my own skin. I can shower and put on hypoallergenic lotion, but it still continues. It's as if my body is trying to reject my skin or something. 

This started at the beginning. I was cold, but I had a hard time dealing with some clothing, like bras. I wore hoodies and yoga pants and Smartwool socks. It's plagued me ever since. Yesterday and today I have a hard time wearing my Teva slip on sandles, the comfy ones. I can't touch a couch pillow because they're too rough.  I don't want anything to touch me, but I can best tolerate soft cotton sheets. Naked, though, is not the answer (at least not the majority of the time. It's awkward to answer the door naked. 

I take Benadryl, but it makes me sleepy. At least I don't have quite the impulse to tear open my skin. But if I scratch then I itch AND hurt. My skin feels raw. 

At least my skin matches my heart. I feel raw inside and outside.  

Just another

Another day. Another year. Another waiting room.  Another attempt at "fixing."

First of all, there is always another day. It stretches infinitely in front of me. It's another parade of days. Another sense of loss. Another day of waking up with this shitty reality. Another depressed day. Another round of tears. I feel like I'm in an endless abyss, lost for 40 years in the desert with no manna in sight. 

I'm another year older. I feel so old. I'm at least double my age. Birthdays are hard. I just want normal life back and there is no normal, just my shitty reality. Libby says that I should let my hair go gray when she graduates from high school. Four more years I can keep up the appearances. But I don't care. I still want my mourning clothes. I don't want to explain why I act erratically. I want people to just be able to see. I understand why Queen Victoria wore mourning clothes for the rest of her life. And that was just for her husband. 

I'm in another waiting room. It's for me or its for Libby. I can't tell you how many hours a week I'm waiting. I wait to be fixed for her someone to try to fix her. But there is no fixing either of us. We just have to make it through. 

Struggling. Again.

I'm in a funk. I feel like everything is piled upon me again. I'm a rubber band that's been stretched too far. I've lost my snap. Okay, I've lost more than just my snap. 

It's hard to get out. I could just stay at the house (in the house?) all the time. I don't want to answer the phone. I don't want to read emails. Most text messages take too much energy to reply. 

Germany took a lot of my starch. Libby takes a lot of my energy. I'm turning 45 next week. I'm marking time since Katie's death. Still. Even I think that I should be better. And sometimes I am better. 

I'm just not better now. Not even close.