Pack and get dressed before my mother hears us

One week and how many days? Two. Like I could possibly forget or lose count. What I instead had forgotten was that feeling of not being able to breathe, the one of an invisible pressure on my bare shoulders, like a glas ceiling everywhere I go, collapsing in slow motion. I can't see it, but it happens right before me and fills my veins with sand and rose thorns. A beautiful curse of some kind.

I'm living with someone I should love but don't, and I'm carrying the blame like a load of bricks. She's me mother but the word has lost all meaning, and to make you understand why I have to finish telling the story about my father.

Please bear with me, I need you.