Today is a day when I know that I need to write.
The Hard Stuff. The Ugly Shit. Thus, today I know writing is dangerous because, if I say all the things I am needing to say – and should say – out of my respect for honesty – I could blow everything up.
What makes this more dangerous is that I am not sure if I even care, although I suspect I do care very much.
I just do not have the damn energy to contemplate the effects of detonation.
I admit that, “needing to say” – in itself – sounds pretentious as fuck and makes me want to cringe.
But, it is what it is, and I pride myself in calling a thing a thing.
What I am most needing is to breathe and for my body to bloody well cooperate or do a much better job than it has been doing over the past few days.
Yesterday, or the day before ~ I cannot remember ~ it felt like static electricity was flowing through my veins.
Merely speaking to anyone, especially to those dear to me, was dangerous and combustible.
In what could only be described as an amalgamation of barbed wire and honeysuckle, I fantasized about telling my children exactly how I felt about their disrespectful attitudes and lazy efforts.
My fantasy conversations were not only for my children; my husband was on that list too.
But, I did not reveal a thing, which tells me I was in better shape, at least I was on that particular day.
Today, and I do know it IS today, is worse: much, much worse.
There is simply nothing within me that could spark, much less ignite much of anything, including me.
I am not tiptoeing around trying to avoid detonating live wires.
I have been demoted to passive observer.
Anything requiring more of me is too much.
Impossible. Beyond. Fantastical.
My own breath, my life force has been sucked out of my body without resistance.
And, this happened on MY watch, which makes the withdrawal more insidious.
I am complicit in my failure-to-thrive. I am complicit in my failure to do anyfuckingthingatall.
Daughter of Circe 