Honesty.

Why do I write?  Why keep this blog?  I guess in part because someday I hope to look back at the words I've written and see where I've come from.  Maybe see some progress even.  Little bits of joy and fun times possibly.  But right now, in the midst of everything, I am blind and deaf to the world around me.

Can't say I'm really happy about this.  It's just the honest to goodness truth.  And since I'm speaking about honesty, why paint a picture that isn't truthful?  Why pretend to brush my paper with vivid greens and bright pinks, warm yellows or brilliant blues, when I really just want muddy browns and dark greys?  (Gosh, does anyone remember when Sarah was like 3 years old and painted using only black paint?  I'd offer her an entire pan of watercolors and she'd only use black.  It was disturbing.)  There is no glitter or shine.  Only flat, murky chaos.

It's not getting better or easier.  I think I'm sinking even deeper.

I have no patience.  I have no focus.  There is no joy even though I have plenty to be joyful about--I'm not a completely irrational ingrate, after all. There is no direction.  There are no more dreams.  There is no hope, though my mind tells me that isn't totally true either.  My heart just keeps usurping all the power.

I have so much fear now.  Fear of the future.  Fear of the unknown.  Fear of remembering.  Fear of being alone.  Fear of messing up.  Fear of abandonment.    Fear of ruining my children.

I sit outside and can't feel the warmth of the sun even though I can see the light.  I don't hear the wind rushing through the leaves on the trees even though I can see them moving.  I look at the jasmine blooming outside my window but I can't smell its sweetness anymore.  There is no full cookie jar in my kitchen.  I used to think that a happy house must have, at all times, a full cookie jar.  No candles lit at the dinner table either.

I hate this place where I am right now.  It's dark and lonely and scary.  It's suffocating me and I'm unable to find a way out.  Maps (even Apple Maps!) are useless.  Advice falls upon my unhearing ears.  Kindness is like a life ring, thrown by those trying to help me escape the incoming tide, but I'm just too tired to keep ahold of it.

Weary.

Bill was my compliment.  He rubbed off my hard, pointy corners and made me softer and less pokey.  He helped wear down my scratchy and garish bits until I glowed with a beautiful, though aged, patina.  In his presence, you didn't notice the parts of me that had been broken off, worn away, repainted, or glued back together.

I'm not sure what's left of me now.