It isn’t the end of the month, but I felt like writing tonight–an urge I get less often than I’d like these day. My emotions have run high lately, spilling out in conversations with my husband rather than on paper. I mentioned the difficulty of the transition in my last post. I think the word “difficult” has such a range and uncanny ability to mask the severity of most situations. So does depression. No day is the same. Sunday spoke like this:
Shaken. Tumble down stairways.
Dark. Without a window to the outside.
Tears. Collected in jars and glasses set out for those who couldn’t come.
Fear. The deep alone of leaving.
Life. The when and where of what is now.
I’m not there tonight. Although, I generally feel more on the edge of dipping down into those places than usual. An introvert fearing the long stretches of days in the apartment with a nonverbal little boy. It is amazing to me how sometimes the clouds roll in and completely drown the joy of what’s in front of me. How fear and loneliness loom so large I can’t see the promises that I have nothing to fear because I will never be alone.