this is my new book. old stories new pages.

I feel a kind of loud, heavy aloneness. Angry at the universe that took my mama away and is leaving little holes in Grandma’s memory and sense. Bitter that I have to mother the baby to sleep while Bu has beers and music at friends’. I said it was OK; didn’t know the house would start to shrink around me and I’d feel like I have lead for blood. No more words, just enough energy to scratch my initials in the ether. Reach out to the air with disembodied half expressed thoughts.

Say, I’m here, feeling sluggish and clogged and un-everything, and this is my reality this moment. Dear diary. Dear electronic penpals. Dear other tired moms and Dads:

I’m tired, I’m worried, and I’m scared kind of. I know this, the paralyzing nothing in my hands and toes and mirror. It’s worse than the shaking buzzing panic, but it’s better than it was when I was half my age and I first felt it. Better because I know I can breathe through it and never lose my center. Better because a tiny child’s cry will pierce it in an hour or a few and I’ll be a little satellite around her and the tiny new world of her will be my gravity. Better because my husband who has lovely laughter etched around his eyes will come and he will act a monkey fool to make me smile. I have milk to feed my daughter and I can’t stuff my holes with drink and pills and we’ll all be OK this time. I have a new book, with daisies not demons and people to read it. They leave me notes like little folded greeting cards and they make me know the isolation is in my head where it always was. I know myself better, inside out, and I’m knowing my world and letting it spin. Light after dark, always. Always.


7 responses to “this is my new book. old stories new pages.

  1. I love you, dear cousin!

  2. And I love you, also- from afar! Some of us have been there, and still visit from time-to-time. Tie yourself to the mast and hang on, baby… there will be the light… and it just gets better and better.
    And stay real, and lovely, like you are.

  3. Oh, thanks girls:) Jess gets extra points for a nautical metaphor that made me conjure Jack Sparrow’s grand entrance to Port Royal:) If I can just have a little Captain Jack in me… oh, my. Drool.

    So, see? Sillier today. Coffee = drink of the Gods.

    I love you too Veeta! *Big hugs*

  4. yes dear, it’s hard. i know… life sucks at times and at other times it’s just real good.

    music works for me. it’s a surefire mood shifter when nothing else works. soothing or upbeat, depending on what my soul needs.

    hope that helps some. {{{{{BIG HUG}}}}}

  5. I just stumbled on your blog today. You are a terrific writer and although it is a sad post I really enjoyed reading it and thought i’d let you know.

    Take care of yourself. Advice from a stranger who is also a mom…get out of your house everyday, even if it’s just to get your daily coffee. 🙂 oh, and take a shower every morning no matter what.

  6. What a sweet sentiment, Dalton. I remember holding onto that advice like a comforting mug of tea in the days home with my newborn, my breastpump, and bottles and clocks.

    My isolation’s not the mama home with baby kind. I wish I could trade my insanity for that brand, although I know the grass isn’t as green as I imagine. My tiredness is from a 30 hour a week day job and running a business on the weekends, from near constant cheery “Bye Byes” at drop-offs at the grandies’, from not wanting to take time away from being pulled in 100 directions to focus on my center.

    I’m managing. Thanks for your kind words and for stopping to read. I’m not always so weary.

  7. Well it’s good to hear you are not always so weary. 🙂 I look forward to “getting to know you” as I read more of your posts.
    Take care.

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