60. Emotional Tax

Dear London Fire Snake Scorpio,

Good morning, my love. It’s 09:07. The kids went to school. My head is heavy and sluggish, and the price for this week’s marathon starts to be obvious. Yesterday, I also took 3250 mg of Tylenol in total, which explains why I slept well and woke up with my muscles tight, as in recovery, not broken, as they had been for the past few days.

This morning I only took 500 mg instead of 1000 mg, and I still feel the neck and jaw at an 8/10 pain level. I might have to take that extra 500 mg to be able to function, but I was thinking I can probably suffer through till the lunch dose and then be a little more patient with the kids. The morning was not the best, patience-wise.

I was very proud to see my time tracker this week showing that most of my clocked time (I only clock “office” work) was dedicated to writing:

My projects, as you see, are not “write a blog post” but a statement of intent: “I am a Writer”. I am pleased with how I used my time this week. Granted, it is missing the Athlete statement, but that is temporary. This ratio, where I am mostly writing, dealing with the business side (which, honestly, 80% of the time also means writing) and only a sliver of time planning things, is golden.

I usually spend way more time on planning, so seeing that this week so far it was only rough 6% of the time makes me feel amazing. It means the routine I have is holding, so I need minimal planning in the mornings.

Today is a complicated day on many levels. Physically, I am up for another gruelling day in the kitchen, and my body is already at its limits. I will take the afternoon off — hopefully — if I finish assembling and baking the lasagnas before then. And then tomorrow is all cerebral work (the kids are with him for a day), so at least on the physical side, I will be resting. I might still train tomorrow. We will see.

Mentally, I have a marathon too, and it’s not an easy one. Started this morning by paying for our tickets to the dinner on the 21st for the holiday meal at the worship place and buying an electric can opener on Amazon. My manual broke, and I just can’t take this BS anymore. I am using so many cans, and my wrist’s health is crucial. Spending any money right now comes with a high price in cortisol.

Next, after a shower and getting ready, I am going to the dentist. I have had a cavity for months and months now that needs to be treated, and I am dreading the price tag. Thankfully, CDCP covers most things, but I never know, and I literally have $200 left on my credit card limit, and I cannot postpone it any longer. So, another stress boost.

Then I need to rush home. If everything goes according to plan, I should be home by noon, so I will have 1 hour to cook the red sauce, the onion layer, and the lasagna sheets. Then at 13:00, the first bank food donation should arrive. The social worker from the little ones’ school is delivering it. Thank god, I have no idea what I would have done without that help. I have no car or license — as I told you before.

So by that point, the 4 large bowls full of the other lasagna layers in the fridge need to be taken out to make space. I will accept and arrange the food, then have about an hour to cook again. At about 14:00–14:30, the second delivery from another food bank is coming. I was able to find another food bank, but the dates clashed (so they both arrive today instead of being spread out). This second food bank is new to us as well, so I have absolutely no idea what to expect.

Then, while accepting the food from the food bank at 14:00, I will have a phone call with my accountant. It should not be a long conversation, and I am hoping against hope that I will have some kind of tax return. Honestly, this is how I hope to pay my accountant. Otherwise, I am in shit, lol.

So, it will be a very high-stress day today, too. Every single thing on that list is very emotionally and mentally taxing for me. Accepting that kind of help — and I have so many people I am accepting help from today — every single time, feels like an item of clothing has been taken from me. So, paying the worship place the reduced fee, food bank 1, social worker 1, food bank 2, social worker 2, and then the accountant, whom I will need to ask for a reprieve to pay him later. Sigh. That’s a lot of exposure.

I treat all of those favours not as favours but as debts. On one hand, it feels like every single debt like this is a brick on my already tight neck. On the other hand, it’s the only way I can breathe at all. I have a notebook, you know, where I write every single fucking debt I have, and I vow to you, by my damn blood and soul, that I will repay every single one of those debts with interest.

The one thing I am struggling with is the pull to start the same old dance with my ex. As a textbook narcissist, he knows exactly how to activate me. Right now, he is grooming me again. So after the stern conversation I had with him, he became very mellow and helpful. He paid for the furnace repair, and he still didn’t use it against me.

Then yesterday we were texting about the schedule, and I told him I needed the 25th, but then I remembered he was planning to go with his wife on a week-long trip that week. So I said, “Oh, never mind, I forgot.” He texts “No, no. I can change my plans. I can take the kids that evening and drop them off at school the next day. Will that be helpful to you?”

I caught myself seconds before I pressed the send button on a “Thank you SO much, it would be so helpful.” See, this is how I usually talk to people. By nature, I am a grateful person. But I suddenly realized in that moment that this gratitude is exactly the signal he is waiting for to start “growing” in demands and cash all the “kindness” chips he invested.

It was very hard for me, but I deleted that text and sent him: “That would help a lot, actually. If I don’t need to change the mammogram date (again), then it’s the last step before scheduling the surgery. The sooner I am done with this shit, the better it will be for all of us.”

It’s a true battle, not to let my mentality of “this is a loan, not a favour” that I use everywhere else in the world, not to seep into my conversations with him. But it is crucial if I want to keep that relationship steady. And don’t you dare lecture me about being able to accept help when you are exactly the same, mate, we titans do not like to be helped. We hold the damn world, not the other way around. It’s just not the natural order of things.

Yesterday I dreamt about you, too. I wasn’t sure I wanted to tell you this one because it’s like setting an expectation. And I want to be very clear — it was a dream. I have many expectations of you when we meet. Like never letting me go to bed without you by my side (I won’t have you in the house and on the damn phone when I am in bed), like keeping a tactile connection at all times, like sex — and loads of it. Yes, putting it on the table, dear, it’s part of the agreement.

But this one, this one is a silly dream and definitely not an expectation. In fact, I would like you to forget it as soon as I say it. Damn, I am nervous, lol, but I promised you the truth and all of it. So here: yesterday I had a dream. We were sitting at the dinner table with the kids. It was the weekly religious meal that my people celebrate. Just a reminder: I am not religious, but I am traditional.

You 5 sit at the table. I just lit the candles, picked up a tray with a dish on it, and turned to the table. I almost dropped the tray as I heard you sing. Because… because you are not from my tribe, we both know it. As I said before, statistically, you are probably Christian. And yet, there you are singing that song where a husband celebrates his wife, her hands and her work. God created the ingredients, but she made them into delicacies.

I burst crying, right there and then. You kept singing, walking to me with that infuriatingly slow and confident cadence, taking the space, absorbing the emotion. You grab the tray from my shaking hands and put it on the counter. And you hold me. And you sing. “What are you doing, silly man?” I am finally able to say through the breath hitches. “Saying thank you.” You answer when you are done. You kiss my forehead and hold me close for just a fraction longer.

My kids are watching. Stunned, of course. Since when does mom break like this in the middle of the kitchen? Mom screams, mom gores, mom pushes through. But this? I am a mess as you lead me to the table. You are as stable and, honestly, a little smug and self-satisfied because you were able to move me, as you always are. We sit, and you command the table. My boy reads the prayers, but I cannot take my eyes off you, still hitching every so often, my hand holding yours as if you are the only raft in a storm under the table.

I woke up crying from that dream. And my eyes teared up now, too. Silly, I know. And… definitely not something I expect.

I also wanted to acknowledge that I understand that sometimes I repeat myself, telling you my daily routines and plans again and again. But I think that’s why people are encouraged to journal: you spill what is in your head on the page, and then you are actually able to function without the noise. Not to mention that recognizing patterns when you are in this constant look-back at what happened is crucial to my sanity and growth.

Yes, ok, I am a coward. Stop smirking. I pivoted to a matter-of-fact BS to avoid the deep emotional hole I opened by sharing that dream. But you could have been more of a proper English gentleman and not point it out, brat.

Do you have any idea how much I love you? 
All yours, forever and a day,
Oxy. 
May 14, 2026

Help me find him: Have you seen this man?