I’ve quietly let
myself in the backdoor with the key I left under the mat.
I feel like I
need to explain myself. I feel like I
should explain myself. Should…that’s a
burden of a word/attitude. I
haven’t been here in a long while. I
haven’t filled this space with anything new, anything at all. I have so many
good excuses. I don’t have any good excuses.
When I’m being honest with myself, I know that I put things down here
because it helps me to know what I think.
The act of choosing words and forming sentences and gathering thoughts
gives me a chance to work through things.
Meh…I think that
was the preamble. The disclaimer. I think that was the part where I try and
make myself feel better.
I am angry.
I am sad.
I moved to Texas
and I cannot seem to find my footing. I
keep getting knocked down, slammed down, nudged aside, “Here hold this, fix
this, handle this, take this on, be okay with this…and do it fast, and don’t
plan on anyone helping you because you’re alone Sweetheart, you’ve started
over, so buckle up.” “Oh, and it’s a big, fat, ugly, Texas cowboy buckle that doesn’t go with anything you know…so, fuck
you.”
I need to reign
in that last rant or it may never stop.
You know what I
do? I pretend to be fine because NOT
being fine is inconvenient. It’s
inefficient. And I don’t want anyone to
see that happening.
I am not
fine. And it’s terribly inefficient. But I know when I’m writing and thinking, that
I’m better. So here we go again....
