I’ve wanted to come to the page a lot these past few days. But I am too much of chicken shit to write for you when it really counts.
I wanted to write about the metaphor of fire. To tell you about the short story I sarted (but never finished) four years ago, the last time our city was enshrined in smoke and flame. I wanted to tell you about the cyclical nature of time. I wanted to tell you how I was amazed last time, but this time I looked at the fragile body of my three-month-old, and I was downright terrified. I wanted to tell you about how the coughing fits I’ve had at night have reminded me of that wretched breathing machine and that lately, it’s getting harder and harder to stop thinking about my surgery and what it all means.
I am just so damn sad right now. Sad, when I have so much to be grateful for, when my losses could be insurmountable, but really aren’t.
I hate that I can’t separate the beauty of may daughter’s birth from my scars, my aches, my bewildering fatigue. I am terrified that the only mother she may know is one who is tired and flabby, and prone sadness and grief.
She is amazing. She deserves so much more…
but this isn’t what I wanted to write for you. I wanted to write something good, something interesting, something reflective. I should be working on my freelance projects, before I’ve blown all my deadlines and ruined my chances of ever getting decent work again. But the sadness persists, keeps me immobile. Paralyzes me, renders every word I write into useless crap.
And now this post is scaring me. Embarrassing me? And I want it to end. I’m ending this here. I’m not dragging this on. I’m going to resist the urge to delete this. But I really want to. I hate that you’ll know how somber I am.