Sad Sunday

You know, I really, really hoped, everything would get better one day.
There must be an end to all suffering, misfortunes, misunderstandings and bad luck.
But maybe Frank Zappa was right: torture never stops.

I was looking forward to this weekend, hoping to see my father succesfully recovering from his surgery, hoping to talk to my mother in a friendly way, now that there are no secrets -at least concerning the family- between us, hoping to finally give the birthday presents to my sister and to celebrate and enjoy the feeling that I had been more or less healthy for two weeks, hoping to finally have time to finish and publish all the blog entries from the last three weeks, not to mention the essays, to please my parents with the few good news and funny stories...BUT.
Instead it was another sunny weekend I spent crying, arguing with my mother about nonsenses, letting the past pain overwhelm us. I had hardly any chance to talk to my father in a normal way and I (unlike the neighbours or relatives who saw him smiling, with his scar covered by bandage) was a witness to his being in pain and trying to hide it and I saw his swollen scar. Again I experienced the terrible uncertainty what to do and what is right and whom to trust and whether to trust myself, again I felt terribly guilty for everything bad that is happening around me. And, what was worse, I was unable to feel happy for those of my friends who told me they were happy. I have no wish to go back to work tomorrow (especially when almost everybody else I know is taking a day off, as Tuesday is a holiday here), but I have no desire to stay in this atmosphere either. I can't imagine myself forget everzthing, go and have fun, but I can't make myself be responsible and finish all the bureaucracy to get my accomodation stipend either. What the hell is wrong with me? And crying aloud and telling all this to you makes me seem even more insane...
So please, please, you little yet very painful mysterious wen on my right wrist, giving me troubled time most of the weekend, would you just stop it? I admit I was giving you hard time, working on computer all the time, moving the heavy furniture, trying to ignore you when you first hurt and to minimize the warnings in the form of a memory of my clasmate, whose similar problem led to a minor hand surgery, but try to understand: I can't afford going to the doctor's instead of to the offices and instead of school anymore. I need a few more days to get prepared to fight the next possible disasters... and I don't think I can manage it without your help, dear right wrist. Perhaps a little piano/flute/guitar therapy and a combination of ointments would conciliate you. Deal?