This blog is not FDA approved
I wanted to write a piece of heartbreaking beauty.
But the reality is messy. And ugly.
The reality is mundane and frustrating and overwhelming. Never-ending.
Memories pile up like stacks of paper that grow on counter-tops and seem to reproduce themselves in the night.
I try to create beauty—and separation—with the gloss of beautiful words. I write blog posts that package my life into clever, compact stories with characters and story-arcs and tidy little endings. But that’s just an illusion.
It’s like taking an Instagram photo. I choose a finish that grants a false patina of time and distance… a finish that makes the blur of shaky hands look intentional, artful even. But it doesn’t fool anyone.
And just as the childhood photos we look at again and again become cemented into Memory—that’s who we were, that’s what we did—the posts I write are an attempt to draw a boundary around portions of my life and force them into making sense—that’s what happened, and that’s why, why, why.
Yet, “Why?” is a question with no real answers.
How can I possibly make sense of these things:
None of these things make sense. That’s the reality.
Yet, they are the album of my life. They are the memories that even Instagram can’t fix. They pile up, up, up and threaten to overtake me.
I wake up each day, force myself out of bed.
On weekends, my new husband lets me sleep in. He brings me tea, decadently sweetened. He cracks open the window shade, and lets me take time to reenter the world.
I take my pills. I go to yoga. I drink plenty of water. I eat dark chocolate.
I hug my children; tell them, “I love you” even when I’m not sure I feel anything at all.
I take pictures, and put the happy ones in albums so we will all remember a family life more idyllic than it was.
And I write.