Offline, I hate to call my mother when I’m not in a great place.
Online, I hate to blog when I’m not in a great place.
But if blogging is the space we are our authentic ourselves, and the rest of the world be damned, why should it matter? Because if you are the sort of person who hates loved ones to worry about you, it matters.
But not to write is to break, and to not write about breaking is to break even more when you feel you can’t (shouldn’t?) write about breaking.
It has felt almost impossible to write that since Bronnie’s death I have felt lost and abandoned. This is even truer when ill.
Currently, I am not well.
A not well I will survive, but which feels like a hard survival without Bronnie. I know now how well he used to look after me when I had to admit defeat and put the force field down awhile. Without him one soldiers on for children and loved ones and, let’s admit it, for the accolade of being strong. “Got to admire that girl; after all that has happened, she is so strong.”
Well, strong also be damned. When you have children there is no choice. Strong is not a choice, it’s a mandate.
But sometimes admitting to not feeling strong doesn’t mean everything will break.
The Black Widow