My ballot papers sits on the desk in front of me; for the third time in a week I have taken it out hoping for divine inspiration.
I phone my 89-year-old mother and ask, what would my Dad have done? A lifelong supporter of Fianna Fáil, he was always pragmatic - could he have countenanced the ultimate compromise, a coalition with the old enemy?
We ponder but no answer is forthcoming. Do whatever your heart tells you, my mother says. In my heart is only anger and frustration. I look at the ballot paper one again and curse Micheál Martin, I curse the Fianna Fáil parliamentary party for putting its members in a position nobody wanted.
If we vote for it will we destroy Fianna Fáil? Vote against and we are warned of dire consequences to the State.
I wonder where the grassroots of the party are hiding? Barely a whimper of dissent. What has happened to the great Fianna Fáil machine built from every parish in the country, the men and women who would lay siege to Dáil Éireann to support Charlie or would storm out of a meeting with fists clenched on a matter of principle? Are these passionate men and women who I remember dead and buried or has their passion been worn down?
I look at the ballot paper again.
Damned if I do, damned if I don't.
So I don't.
Two wrongs don't make a right. I tear up the ballot paper and throw it in the bin.