When I get angry, I can shout, and shouting soothes my fury. Cathartic crying ebbs my sadness. But being pecked pecked pecked til I leave a bloody trail of superficial wounds leaves me a kind of numb for which I know no salve.
I've been bleeding in slow drips for several weeks, but you can fill an ocean drop by drop.
It's not any one thing, and it's not everything. It's still just too much though, and I can only sit quietly and nurse my scabs.
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Two kids, two full time careers - lots of people do it gracefully, but for me it's a challenge, particularly as I struggle with my boy, the rooster, and his "constellation" of health and developmental issues. Medicine so far fails to cure what ails us, so I'm trying a self-prescribed intensive dose of blogging to see if that does the trick.
5 comments:
I know it well. Well enough to have named it in fact. I call it 'death by a thousand paper cuts.'
I hope the pecking eases off.
Oh, the hard times can be so hard. I know there's nothing I can say here to make it better, but please know that I'm thinking of you and sending lots of good vibes your way.
I can totally relate to this. I'd almost prefer the grand crisis to the erosion of irritating minutiae. I hear you!
Sending love your way. May it be a salve to help heal some of the scabs.
I totally, completely understand. XO
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