A couple of people have asked why I’m not posting. I’ve had well-meaning friends even tell me what I should post about . . . “maybe not so much about your body image/weight/food intake.” Some have said I could just write what I put on FB. [Apparently it’s that entertaining!] Some have said to write what I’m thankful for. Some have said to get one of those kits that help you think of what to write in a journal. They have those helpful questions about my most favorite memories, what my first grade teacher was like, what I will be doing 5 years from now, or what I’m most afraid of.
The truth is, I just don’t have it in me. I stay in ‘composition mode’ most of every single day. I write in my mind and go through all the emotions of sorting this life out. I go through every possible scenario of each phase of what is happening today and tomorrow and the next day. I go through them in detail and I just don’t have what it takes to sit down and re-live it again, through writing, through processing. For example, I’ve cried most of today. I’ve thought about you and your situation. I wrote about it on FB for a minute or two. It hurt when I wrote it. It hurt when I read it back a few times, it hurt every single time I read a comment that someone left.
I sat on the couch and tried to distract myself with watching some shows I had recorded while I was gone and I started crying so hard that my clavicle ached. It was that painful wail that hurts your forehead and cheeks and racks your body until you don’t have anything left. My cheeks and jaws already ached from spending an hour with Jeremy at Manual Solutions. Now they hurt even more so I spent a couple of hours with alternating cold and hot packs on my left jaw.
Sometimes life comes at you pretty fast.
I have all sorts of rhyming dictionaries. I bought a bunch for my mother because she loved them so much. I bought thesauruses because I know the value of having just the right word. And, I got all of those books back when my mother passed away. But even with all that I just have to say I wanted a perfect ending. Now I’ve learned, the hard way, that some poems don’t rhyme, and some stories don’t have a clear beginning, a middle and a flawless end. I’ve had to accept that life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it without knowing what’s going to happen next. And I’m just not coping well with all that. I want poetry. I want lyrics. I want a perfect accompaniment with a cello and violyn in exact harmony. I want answers. And I want poems that rhyme.
And that’s why I can’t write. Because I need to know what the ending is. I need to know ahead of time because I don’t want a surprise. I don’t want to not be prepared. I don’t want to fall apart. I’m a control freak and need/want to be in control of all my emotions, all my thoughts, all my reactions. And I can see things spiraling out of my control.
Surely you get this. Surely you get that it is too hard to write about something else. Anything else. Because what is consuming me, what is taking all my hopes and prayers and absorbing all my faith is you. I can’t imagine my life without you. You bought a house with a bedroom upstairs so that I could come and live with you when my circumstances came to that. And now circumstances have changed so drastically that I don’t know what to think. I thought we would play canasta and rook and spades like you and my mother did. I thought I’d tell you childhood stories like my mother did. I thought you’d make me a scrapbook like you did for my mother. And now all I know is that poems don’t even rhyme.