Picasso’s portrait of ME.

***   The following was written during a particularly dark time. It cannot be used to judge me today. I am reposting it after two years. I had deleted it because I was afraid someone would read it. I ‘m not afraid anymore.

 

 

Sometimes I am convinced I am short-circuiting.  I cannot function normally. I am just too sad.  It’s getting worse.  My life has lost meaning. I actually don’t want to function at all. At least having kids keeps me moving, even if I feel empty inside. It must be how a ghost feels…

I am lucky.  Luck has saved me innumerable times.  Amazing luck.  Does God allow some people to have good luck?  I use to think my good luck proved God was on my side.  Now, I’m just grateful I have good luck.

I use to win lotteries or drawings, wake up behind the wheel just in time to avoid a head-on collision, or get that perfect parking place.  I would thank God.  My heart would beat in my throat.  I would ponder on my remarkable luck.  I would think I was meant to live.

Luck runs out.  Will mine run out when I don’t really have a reason to be here?  Is that why I have been so lucky?  Getting exactly what I need at the time I need it until there is no reason for me anymore?

I published posts that were very close to my heart.  Many were written during very stressful times.  Some brought praise.  Some brought fire.  I even deleted a couple because they offended somebody.  But, being nobody makes it all the more strange that someone would care what I say or think somebody else might. If someone who knows me reads my words, then that person really isn’t learning anything new. If you know me, you know I live out loud.  Very loud. My opinion or twist on my reality is insignificant.

My life is known by those who are in it and who matter.  People close to us observe and sum up our lives so readily.  I’ve even been  surprised to find there were people who actually saw my life as I did.

I thought I could keep myself in line and nobody would know I was cracking.  When the truth was confirmed, I could not go back, the floodgates were opened.  I’m now exactly where I was before I tried to be a “good” person.

It was a friend who recommended that I start a blog.  “Nobody will read it.” That point was driven home.  The point was that I needed to write because I loved to.  A blog somehow made writing easier and more exciting when I found myself alone.  A secret thrill…

Journals are not private.  That may seem contradictory, a blog being public and a journal being completely secret, but journals are found and read.  Just ask my daughter.  I found and read her journal once.  Her offense was understood completely when my journal was found and read.  The difference between us was I never, ever mentioned what I read, and my written words were used as lashes on my back.  Truths to condemn me. Yet, I never saw my journal like that.

When I wrote the words I was just complaining.  It was a way of venting my frustrations or pain without hurting anyone.  And, it made me feel better. But, journals are found.  Words on a page are weapons.  Blogs are in cyberspace.  Intangible and unread.  As long as I am nobody, nobody will see me.  It feels really safe.

People turn for succor to different things.  I have used alcohol to soften the edges of my hard reality.  I have used driving and music to soothe and calm me.  I have used gifts given as a means of fulfilling my desperate need to help when I can’t help myself.  I like soup.  It fills and warms my shriveling soul.  I thought art would help me.

That was a mistake.  Art, or the attempt at it, just proves the folly of my life. I want to quit before somebody else tells me I should. My words are no help to me.  I fear the canvas like a minefield.  The blank page is just another accusation.

I received a message once.  “You need to just take a breath.  It’s going to be okay,” it said.  No.  YOU are going to be okay, and I am going to implode.