I was attempting to segue my entire Blogger posts onto here and sadly I could not figure out how to make it so and retain the integrity of all the dates so we stayed chronological. So, I cheated and just added my blogger link on here. This one from 2010, seems so apropos for now, I thought I would share:
I saw his face today, across the green murky video camera feed. He somehow looked older than I had ever seen him, the stretch across the lower jaw as you begin to age, the beginnings of age creeping in that I never noticed. But the hardest part was the slackness in the eyes, the emptiness and sadness looking back at me. I wanted to reach into the screen and touch through my sorry, my sorry for everything, my sorry for the hurt, the pain, the broken heart, I am so sorry for the chasm of all that could not be undone. Did I cause the light to go out, for you to lose your spark.
Everything across my screen looked so small and far away, like a tiny fishbowl that I wanted to press my palms onto, to look in, to watch my life without me, how it all could be the same but so different. How unknowing and innocent excepting the knowing in my mind, knowing what I held would change so much and they didn’t know, they were all still so happy.
How long do I carry this time bomb of indecision, of fear, of moving forward with no regrets, accepting this as not failure yet feels like the mantle of failure? I know, when I step off that plank there will be no peter pan to swoop in, because heroes only exist in fairy tales, and a mistake in reality is borne by me and me alone.
Why cant I see this as a shining light, as that beacon at the end of tunnel, is it the sacrifice. I read copious amounts that tell me about me, about what I am, about what I do, about what I think, that all of this is normal for me, the instability, the chaos, the impulsiveness, how do you fight against what you are? Where are the words of light, of saviour, that maybe, maybe I can make the right choice, that maybe I don’t have to leave a trail of hurt in my wake. Is it ok, does it make it ok because the books say this is what I do? It’s ok because this is I, this is what I do, this is what I’ve been given and the children bear the sins of the mother.
There are no answers, just questions and doubts. I am insulated here, hidden, shrouded, but I know I am weak and fragile. Even a tiny sliver of reality jars like a million shards cutting, and I remember, I am not as strong as I wish. It’s good to have the reminder because I get complacent, begin to assume all is well with me, in a vacuum it’s easy to be lulled into safety. Reality bit today and I bled.
There are days that I drop tears onto myself…