I have writers block. Words evade me, slipping around corners and dancing just outside my peripherals. I feel like I don't have anything to say to the world, or perhaps I just have too much.
Something is damming up the flow I've never struggled for, clogging the recesses of my brain and turning me to inward silence. Stresses hover all around, finances, health, relationships, children. They are there, as they always are - but I can't get around them. They fall like granite boulders and crush the brittle reservoir of words. They crumble to dust that runs silkily between my fingers to the beyond. Perhaps they were empty to begin with.
I've tried to keep my emotions out of this corner of space - after the "thing which we will not talk about" happened and I came humbly back to this wee blog. It may not be much, but it's all mine. I fear that somehow those things I expose, the soft underside of the real me will again be gutted by those I loved and trusted. Correction - those I still love and miss terribly. I worry that exposing myself again will lead to the same terrible conclusion. How frightening to think that those things you are most worried about, those things that make you cry out in your sleep - those insecurities you try bravely to hide - become ammunition in a game of one-uppance. My fingers are still scorched.
I've seen my readers go, numbers dwindle down into single digits. I've grieved those losses, thinking that those who returned to read my little words - things I've tossed out into space, read me (as I do them) for the pleasure, or commiseration or understanding flowing out of them. I've come to understand that perhaps those who failed to return to this page really weren't invested in those words anyhow. I've accepted that those few that return do so from choice, not obligations to those they know or social circles they travel within. I'm ok with that, and to those that are here reading this - I want you to know that I appreciate you. Even those that lurk and never comment - thank-you for reading my measly thoughts. It makes me feel a little better to know that I'm not truly talking to myself.
In the battle I've been fighting for my son I am travelling in endless circles. From clinic to clinic I jump, begging for someone to step in and help this little boy with all the anxiety that crushes his spirit everyday. To take the pain from his voice and fill his life with self-confidence, friends and joy. I long to reach behind that which is broken inside him and tinker - adjust, bring to him all the joy I promised him as a newborn babe in my arms. I'm desperate to see him happy. I'm crushed with the guilt of failure. For if Mommy can't help - who can?
Perhaps I did have something to say after all, as I read through these meandering paragraphs. I don't know what they mean, or if they truly ever went anywhere. But they're here, and they are not empty ashes of yesterdays. They're cold truths, hard as diamonds that block my heart.