past

 If it is not the pills against the blood pressure then it is something else. It must be the pills, there is nothing else, not really. The one and a half pills at seven  and a normal reading at seven thirty. All is probably in order, and this will likely be confirmed at the doctor's appointment this afternoon. 

The sons alarm sounded at seven, and there was the sound of him hurtling out of the house just before a quarter to eight, in today's attempt not to be late. It is saddening that he does not now wish to speak with his father, but that relationship is a victim of current circumstances and hopefully it will improve as time goes on. It is saddening, for the realisation is there that any amount of people will explain what is wrong with a particular practice of being a parent, but there is little instruction available as to what needs to be done. There is always the guilty suspicion that something vital has been omitted on the way.

The attempts to withdraw from the perceived chaos that is the life of this family is only being successful in minor ways, it is a path accompanied by constant guilt. This can only be written here, for an admission would be an invitation to all kinds of suggestions of well-meaning solutions, or simple evil minded spite, neither of which are helpful or even comforting. But the slow withdrawal into a personal physical space, a private area, brings the comfort of the minor daily irritations being kept at bay. A small mercy, one that holds salvation from the dark spectre of drug induced isolation and deception of the self. It is just luck that the house, the family dwelling, is big enough to allow this.

There is the realisation that there is not the time left to realise those wishes that were held in the past.