I wax and wane erratically like a protean moon.
Lily and I have an ambitious voyage ahead. There’s a real, live trip in the works, with all of the attendant planning and prepping. I focus on it intermittently because I must, and because I hope that once Lily and I are on the road, we can mark a new beginning.
Meanwhile, there are other, concurrent changes set in motion that shake the foundations of our daily lives. It’s hard to find my sea legs with all the shaking.
It’s hard to recall how I felt a while back, when I was writing on this blog on a near-daily basis, desperate to communicate, to give voice to uncontainable stories and emotions. Now I find myself contracting, words falling out of my head like droplets in a muddy puddle, unsure what to write, unwilling to recount the most private, painful parts. Assembling a single sentence seems to take an eternity.
I’m reflexively withdrawing and I don’t know if it’s right. Still, I feel like such a screw-up in so many ways, I want to hide and plead: please, I can’t bear for you to look at me. I can’t bear your reactions, your judgments. I will never be discerning enough, wise enough, good enough, patient enough, lovable enough.