I am sitting on my bed with billy next to me. I am re reading my blog of mid month last month. It is wild. I was convinced I would die soon. In coma, even. How I imagined terrible things for us all, in our last months of life. But if it was war, that is even worst. I imagined my mother died of alzheimer, I died of something that sent me into coma, etc etc. I must have had smoked a bit of pot back then. When I write those things, they become sort of real in a sense, at least, visible to me. But they have no truth to them. It feels right to write them, but they are just fantaisies, stories. Things that show my core values about how hard life usually is. 

I am very scared at hubby losing his job. It is super stressful. EI is not generous anymore. It is stingy to the max.