Watching for the finish line and unsure of how much farther it may be.
I write, I delete.
I write, I delete.
Nothing will come together for me and lie down neatly on my keyboard and frame my day or my feelings or anything else.
I used to wonder what it would be like to hit the wall. Whatever that meant.
Every breath I take feels like I'm lifting a 25-pound weight.
Housing. A frustration that makes me second guess one decision after another. Believe me, the good decisions are already leased.
Money. Hash. Macaroni and cheese. My socks have holes. Sara needs beads for a project.
Children. Sorry, kiddos. No matter how you slice it, I think you are going to have to share a bedroom.
Si's anger. Like a hammer, pounding me with hurt and guilt and jealousy and more guilt and...
Love. A constant ache that seems as endless as a Mobius strip.
The mediator says I will be happy. My counselor says the same. I would settle for safe. Somewhere out there is joy? Just grant me acceptance and strength.
I remember hearing a runner quoted in the press, explaining his prayer as the last few miles ceom to meet him: "I just keep saying, 'God, do me a favor. If you keep lifting my feet up, I promise I will keep putting them down. Deal?'"
Hang in there on the housing front. You just need some practice at being the early bird. You'll have to drop everything, race for a viewing and make a snap decision if you want to bag something decent. Your turn will come!
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