Who I am has been caught in my throat. Like a choked back sob that sticks there with a pang.
Has it been a whole year? (holy crap time is becoming a scary, unbridled sort of thing!)
It's been about a year since The Nothing descended (Neverending Story, anyone?), since the winter cold crept way deep into my bones and refused to melt even with the summer sun. But now I am not depressed anymore. I haven't been for a while now. I have been enjoying life. Enjoying my sons most of all. I am actually on sort of a delightful mom roll...being responsive and checked in, and even dare I say, fun? Stuff is good (even though challenges abound as per usual). The cogs and wheels of everyday life are running fairly smoothly, and intellectually and philosophically I am ticking along too. I am feeling steady, hopeful...OK.
But (and you knew there had to be a "but" coming right, or else what the eff's the point of this post?), my creative self is stuck in my throat like a choked back sob. I can't seem to let it out, and day by day, week by week the pressure builds, and it's starting to hurt.
The word visceral is stuck in my brain.
Something is lodged deep inside under all the layers of feeling better and being OK. Choked back, like that hard sob, that knots in your throat and makes it impossible to speak normally, even though your face is impassive and by all appearances you are just fine (thank you very much), if it wasn't for the betraying truth of that crack in your voice.
That's how it is.
My Short Story: Life, Interrupted
18 hours ago