There isn't any strict logic to the reasons behind why I am about to write what I am about to write. I said my piece yesterday - or so I thought. Now, though, I feel I have to add more, in order to convey the sense of things as I originally intended. I'm pretty sure I'll only confuse the scene further, and maybe all I'm really doing is venting my anger. But, this is my right, and if that bothers you don't read me. OK ... I am stranded. Since the operation - an unnecessary one, as regular readers will know... lawsuit pending - I've been unable to even myself out. Bedtime is a nightmare. I barely breath. Time drags, and I am suffocating. It’s not the old purposelessness I'm used to, either. My health is an issue but it is not the issue. What I'm most frightened of is that I'm costing myself some kind of valuable entirety, because, in all of this, she has no use for me, except as a hesitation. I cannot think of anything but the bedroom I am no longer welcome in. I crawled, as was suggested. But it was a faint. I simply have no other duties now. It’s never been a problem before. But now it is. Any ideas? Mark

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