I went through a difficult period in my late thirties. My husband was terminally ill, we were about to lose our home as he had been unable to work, and my kids and I were pretty much basket cases. As hard as it was, we walked through it. Losing my husband, relocating to the other side of the country, and struggling to get back on our feet took the next decade. It’s a time I don’t remember much about other than everything changed.
Years later, and a bit of therapy later, I realized I had spent that decade and the next one waiting for the next shoe to drop. Waiting for the next bad thing to happen. In so many ways, usually ones we often don’t see or understand, trauma conditions us to alter our expectations. It teaches us to live in silent fear, fear that the bad things will repeat over and over, fear that we will never get back to a place of joy.
What we don’t realize when trauma holds us in its grip, is that joy isn’t a place. It’s something that lives inside us. If we nurture it, if we understand that we’ve been hurt and we need to heal, joy is waiting inside us to do just that. That’s its purpose.
Sometimes I believe there is always a way…sometimes I wish the door would close forever. Life is a complication of choices, death a clear-cut selection.
Sometimes I think now is as good a time as any…sometimes I think yesterday was easier, it held more promise, perhaps more delusion. The truth lives more in today, taking hope in its own direction.
Sometimes there are no answers…sometimes there are no questions, simply facts. I am responsible for me, no one else, even if no one recognizes me anymore.
At this point in my life, no one seeks my heart with the intensity of a lover. Many are in my heart, but they arrived there by default or have been there so long they don’t notice its walls surrounds them anymore.
I realize day by day my heart has become a city that others inhabit but no one owns…or wants to own, at least not more than a small piece of it.
“I’m sitting here, all my worldly, and some not so worldly, possessions packed away in a 10×20 shed, wondering what the next step in my life will be. I’m an unemployed writer/historian/filmmaker and a mother/grandmother whose children have been supportive enough not to force me into a home when I told them what I planned. I own a car that is virtually theft-proof because it looks like one the Beverly Hillbillies would have turned their nose up at, and a dog that likes to throw things. So what’s the obvious next step for a woman like me?”
I wrote these words over three years ago. Believe me, the next step wasn’t obvious in the least. My hope was to write the next great “Woman on a Journey of Self-Discovery” bestseller. Turns out my new life was less of “Under the Tuscan Sun” and more of “In the Glow of the Wal-Mart Sign”. Still, it’s had its moments. So now I’m taking computer keyboard in hand and sharing life’s craziness. The first step is learning how to put together this space. In case you can’t tell (in which case you are worse off then I am), I’m winging it. Hopefully the visuals will get better with time. If you’re up to it, come and join me. Trust me, it’ll be fun…