I haven't written because I don't know what to say. I'm here, treading water maybe, or walking in place, or just duct-taped to the couch. I might not be here at all. Maybe I'm somewhere else.
There are small joys, sure, but neither the deep-sads or deep-joys ask to be written.
Or maybe they do but they're too hard to write. I'm too tired. Too somewhere-else. Too in-the-same-damned-place.
I guess the reason not to write is that part of me is waiting for a shiny plan to reveal, and I don't have one. Which is okay most of the time except for when I think about it. This would be fine, good odds, for someone with a calmer mind; small pills melting metallic on a tongue, eyes glazed, butter brain. But there's a terrier in mine and the yips hurt something awful. So, it's all a mess, as usual, and as you can see.
At church the other day (I know, weird) an older woman in a red sweater met my gaze and asked, "Could you use a hug?" but it wasn't a question.
I stuttered, and then said "Always," which is the truth, but I felt hyper-aware of my smile, suddenly it was painted on and my cheeks cracked from the strain.
I wonder how long I will have to peel. What to do about the chips and gunk that gather under the crescent moons of my fingernails. How much I will keep swallowed, how long I will keep the key swallowed so I can't open or release anything.
Maybe (not maybe, definitely) this is scrambled and not cohesive or threaded, but I have been away from this space for so long, in another funny little space instead, and I want to send something out into the universe.
I heard this quote the other day. If you don't transcend your trauma you will forever transmit it.
Beep. Beep. Beep.