A Three Story Life: The Setup

I tell myself I don't know how I got here, though the story is traceable, if I choose. It's always about choice, isn't it? The path less followed showed up when my mother died in 1998. I changed my use of time to share more of it with Dad. My mother was primary carer for my little brother, who has Down's Syndrome, and has always lived with my parents. Along with not having a clue about family finances, medical records, birthdays, where the car insurance is: all the flotsam of keeping a paper family aligned, Dad now was solo with Scott full time, and had just lost his wife of 50 years. Scott had a catatonic meltdown in the 80s that I wish I knew more about. He did not come all the way back, and while he was treated for schizophrenia (I have to think there was a diagnosis along the way) he is now being treated for depression and Alzheimer's disease. When I sold my house in 2004, it was as simple as Dad saying "what will you do now?" and me answering "I don't know," to which Dad replied "why don't you move here?" And I did. Telling the story that I don't know how I got here is a lie. It was that simple, as most of life is. So here I am. Living with two men and a neurotic yapping Maltipoo in a senior complex, and no experience that helps in any way. I moved in September, 2004. I started therapy in October. I showed up for my first appointment with 1 blue sock and 1 black, eyeballs spinning in sockets, clutching my driver's license so I could remember my name, and have it handy in case I needed an emergency martini.