I haven't had time to write consistently in so long that I'm starting to wonder if I've lost it. You know...it. There was a time when the computer would whisper my name, when I'd have running lists of things I needed to write about, when I felt compelled to find time, however I needed to do that, to come here.
I think the internet has sucked the joy out of writing.
I've been attacked so often, called names. I've had people make assumptions about me, about the people in my life, about the things that have happened. Those who tend to make those assumptions never seem to realize that we, the writers of the world, don't tell all the stories.
For every story written down, there are countless left untold.
When you're like I am, and as seemingly open about things as I appear, that might seem odd. For certainly, there can't be more?
Oh, but there is.
These past weeks have been difficult for me. They always are anyway, the holidays and all the emotional baggage. The reminders of people who aren't here, whether they have departed from this life entirely or just from mine for one reason or another.
I didn't send cards this year. I just couldn't do it. I dragged out the address book to mail a package earlier this week and was reminded yet again of why. The book, one that I've had since we were married, full of addresses of people gone from my life. The dead. The disconnected. The divorced. The disowned.
It's just too goddamned much sometimes.
I've been edgy all week for a whole bunch of other reasons. My anxiety is ramped way up, so up that all my physical indicators are flashing their red lights at me. The insomnia, the heartburn, the carpal tunnel, the jaw, the sciatica. The feeling like I've been on the verge of a full blown panic attack for over a week now. It's a bit ridiculous how much my body punishes me for internalizing these things.
My husband, the good man that he is, he sees it. He nudges me away from the ledge, tries to reassure me that things will be okay, that we'll find a way to work through whatever it is. Urges me to believe that I'm not just some liability in this world when that's all I can see.
He sees it now, forces me to sit down and talk to him.
We weren't always that way, he and I. We became that way, by necessity. It wasn't a great path to walk, one that I highly recommend you all avoid if at all possible, but it was one that ended here. We're far more functional people as a couple these days, far more grounded, far more supportive. Instead of feeding into one another's fears and anxieties and pain, we balance one another now. He can see the edges of me, feel the sharpness, immediately see how fragile I am and how close to losing it I am, and he tempers that. Now.
It wasn't always that way, and I was reminded of those things in the past in the most unusual way this week. Reminded of just how far we have come, of how bad things really were.
That was the last straw. Sent me down the rabbit hole a bit. I'm crawling out now, slowly. Trying anyway.
I have to try.
I have to do it.
Do or do not, there is no try. Right?
I have to do it because Christmas is in a few days, and no matter what else is going on in my life currently or in the past, I have five kids who need me to get right with myself, who need me to muster whatever joy and happiness I can find.
And I need to do it because my burdens can't become theirs.
I won't allow it.
Let's go bake some cookies and shit.
You with me?
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