Oh the messy entrails of love.
You won’t hear much about my husband or baby. Because, although you and I and all of us crave desperately a semblance of intimacy, we are (sadly) strangers.
To acknowledge that is a start. It is a start towards understanding. It is also the beginning of boundaries.
I don’t need catharsis. I write because when I don’t, I doubt my very existence. I write because when I don’t, the world grayens, limpens into flaccidity. That’s why I write- to keep a finger on my pulse. To stay certain that you and I are alive.
I am not always certain that I am alive, during certain frigid months in December, locked away in an apartment with a precious baby. Precious, yes, but fussy, craving the sun, the walks, the playing in grass. I crave it too, with my whole frigid body and half-erased brain. Seasonal affective disorder, they call it. I take my vitamin D, but it’s not enough to make me happy. Is anything enough to make us happy? So I don’t complain.
And aside from winters, I consider myself almost criminally okay. Should anyone be allowed to feel a lightning jolt of joy just to see the sun ignite its messy excrement (tangerine pink and sun-sinking sand) at dusk? Oh, and the excessive love of family... If only you could hear my daughter laugh! The joy can’t quite be described.
At home, at least. At my parent’s home, the joy comes in rare, relieving waves.
You remember the other day? The horses. The heat. The Unease. Today I realized that all of us live in Unease until someone loves us unconditionally. My husband is that someone, but he is not here. So the Unease stalks me through this house of my childhood. It hangs on my limbs like a disease. It whispers that I stand on shaky ground. They cannot know everything, because if they did, if they did….
Well you never know, but you wouldn’t want to risk it, would you?