It’s sort of a painful desire to feel at peace with myself. I yearn for it, I feel like I work for it, but I think I might be doing it wrong.
I’m not unhappy, I’m not. I’m sure it seems like it here in this space where I write and ramble on about my brain demons. But when I finally reach the metaphorical clearing in my mess of a mind, I can see the multitude of blessings that have been bestowed upon me. Namely, my family. My husband and my daughter. Two of the few people in this world who have the ability to take me outside of myself and remind me that I am more. Much more than what I think I am, more than what I accomplish or don’t accomplish, more than the ideas that other people have about me.
But I feel like I’m clawing and digging my way out of the muck to get to the clearing. Like some dark creature with gnashing teeth and bad intentions is holding onto my ankles, and with every inch I climb, he pulls me down two. Is it this hard for other people? I mean, come on Erin, feel better for heavens sake!
I don’t talk about it much. I type about it… But the only one I really talk to about it is my husband. His love for me allows me to be an open book. A messy and very unorganized book full of mistakes and anger and resentment and fear and control issues and in spite of all of that a book that’s filled with love for a man who made me a mom and gives me a reason, every day, to keep on keepin on. That’s real, folks.