Dementia setting in.

I want to pick up the phone, ask if you’re okay. Maybe hear your voice, ‘cause that would make my day. But I’m scared I’ll make a mistake, of thinking of you. I’ll be thinking day and night, I’d be telling myself that I’m losing my own fight. I feel like I’m going a bit crazy. Maybe it’s the solitude of my four walls; maybe it’s the pressure cooker, brewing on the other side of the plate. I feel anger rising where I though it had subsided, and I wonder if the hormones have collided.