So I have regurgitated my sad story, and there it will remain, now written, now real, just like the letter I received from the neurologist. I am sleeping.
My son needed the computer and seeing my blog up, just shook his head, "Who do you think reads that?
" Nobody I guess" as I hurriedly closed the page.
But that isn't true, I read it and when I do, I know I still exist. Not in the sense of a six figure career, a college degree, an adequate parent, a normal wife, but in my own small reality, where feral cats are fed and loved, where students can always have a pencil, a room to hide out during lunch, where pain, real, imagined is at least given a band-aid and the hope it will soon be better.
This world is big and easy to get lost. All I can do is try because I am always lost and cannot give directions. Maybe for a minute, the cats are safe, the band aid stops the bleeding, life is bearable.
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