I am blonder than ever but I am sure not having more fun. To start with, I am word-constipated, and it's even worse than the other kind of constipation. Except that it is my head and heart that feel bloated with words that need to come out, that are making me toxic.
I am not Superwoman. Not even close. Not even on my best days have I stopped a speeding bullet or flown faster than a speeding plane. I don't have a cape. Lately, most days have felt held together by scotch tape--the generic kind--and a prayer or what passes as prayer for a natural doubter who feels like a hypocrite.
But this week, it has taken super human strength just to get up, to brush my teeth, to breathe in and out.
I am falling apart yet I cannot fall apart. But I am. Falling apart. I am Ms. PacMan, out of power pellets with all four hungry, neon ghosts bearing down on me, and down to my last life. I can hear that sound--that awful sound where the ghosts eat her alive--that mechanical, robot-y sound that signals that the game is over. That terrible sound has begun to haunt my dreams.
Hugs. Lots of them.
ReplyDeleteI have felt this way many times, and somehow crawled out of the dark and back into life. It's a struggle, but it's worth it.
Keep struggling.