Friday, July 26, 2013

Further On Up The Road

     Is it okay to just do a (relatively) short post, do you think? I mean, I know it's my blog and all and I'm kind of master of my own domain and all that, but the idea of a short post seems weird to me. Maybe that's because I tend to run off at the mouth so much, especially when things have been building up for awhile. Or when they haven't, whichever. Honestly, I'm just a mouthy little creature in general, though I know some would disagree with that statement. I also know the above statement seems to be in direct conflict with the fact that I don't post as much as I used to, but I promise you, the words are still there in as much abundance as they ever were. It's just that things are getting darker and uglier and I'm so much more hesitant to put myself out there with those thoughts that some of the others.

     I never wanted to be, you know. Hesitant. In fact, the whole point of this blog, when I first started it, was to try and give as honest a description as possible of what it's like living on a daily basis with the unwelcome entity of Marfan's Syndrome, the degenerative connective tissue disorder my husband was born with. It's become something else, something that I'm becoming afraid to utilize in the way that I need to. I don't know what, exactly, happened to make it that way.

     I think I mentioned in some post or other awhile ago (and by "awhile", I could mean two years ago; I'm not sure) that one of the things that's hardest for me about writing this blog is deciding which parts of my head go here and which parts go into the paper journal that I carry around with me. That journal, in its dozens of incarnations, has kept me calm and able to think straight since I was thirteen years old. It started with black and white memo books that I filled with adolescent angst and wretched poetry that would make even that guy from My Chemical Romance cringe. Now, I fill beautiful leather-bound books with much, much heavier things, thoughts I never imagined I would ever be in a position to have. The end result is the same, though, whether I'm fourteen or twenty-eight - I can sleep at night, because the chaos has somewhere else to go.

     The problem I'm now facing is one that I've been wrestling with for the past three weeks or so. Things are happening with me, with my husband's health, with us as a couple that I desperately want to put out there into the world on the off chance that someone can relate to what I'm saying. It's not just for myself and my own purposes that I want that; I want that faceless person who's thinking my thoughts and fighting the same war with the same desperation I feel to know that they're not alone. I don't want to be alone in this and I don't want the others who are like me to think that they're alone in this. I mean, isn't that the whole point of the exercise?

     What I'm trying to say, in my incredibly roundabout way, is that I need, badly, to get some ugly, ugly thoughts out and I don't think the paper will suffice this time, though that's instinctually where I want to go, because it's safer. I need to know, if I'm going to keep going, that there's someone out there who can commiserate, who's fought this fight, whether they won or lost. I don't care; I just need to know how to do this. I'm almost there, almost ready to expose something that I'm pretty damn sure is not going to come out in a way that makes sense to anyone but me.

     Huh. I guess it's not going to be a short post after all.

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