I'm working on it.

I don't write much anymore. There is no time to do it. No time to be still and center any thoughts about any one subject.  And there is just no one subject rolling around either. Life in this present appears as a jumble of thoughts, needs, wishes, hopes, sorrows, frustrations and demands with no time to adequately address any of them.

Not long ago, I typed out an email to myself about how I really feel.  Therapy for free, if you will.  Like the rest of this random blog where I randomly write random things that mean little to anyone, maybe even little to me, but somehow need to be freed from the inside parts.  And even though I wrote it down, I can't bring myself to actually place it in the light; somehow I feel it needs hiding still, in case someone else, someone wiser or more knowledgeable or happier or better should see it and ink it up with red pen.

This has been the longest year of my life. And so far, the hardest year.  Harder than that seventh year of marriage when we both realized that we'd forever committed to another imperfect person.  Harder than the years when we were working through what marriage meant to our relationships with our parents.  Harder than the year when I could not get hired, even to sell lipstick, and ended up on the couch knitting in a bathrobe.  It has been so hard.

And it continues to be hard.

I'm ok with that.

But what I really hate is the lying.

Because that's what I've become.  A big liar.

People ask how we are.  Some don't really mean it in that sense.  They mean it in the well-mannered conversation way, like 'hi'.  Some don't really mean it at all. They just ask because it's so much a practiced part of Sunday greetings that they can't break the habit.  Some really do mean it, but then, they are in the same place, in a jumble of life's crazy and they don't have time to hear anyway.

So I lie.
I smile and I say we are doing great, counting down the weeks, hanging in there, getting along, a little tired, but still going strong.
And then they smile back and pat me on the back or the shoulder or give me a quick hug and say how glad they are for us and walk on.

I do this over and over and over and over and over.

And that's not the real story.

In the grand sense of things, we *are* totally fine. We are making it. We are pushing on and getting through. It's what we do.  It's what we will do. We will get through all of this.  There is grace, big enough and strong enough to pull us across to the other side.

But it's not the whole story.

What do you say to the persons who demand things of you when you can barely get through the basics? How do you explain to your friends that you just can't make the play date or the coffee date or do the extra demonstration or teach them how to sew - just not right now? How do you explain that you are so exhausted that merely getting ready for the one hour ballet class each week is nearing the impossible? How do you explain that you don't want to deal with any serious conflict right now, that you just want to rest and get through to the end? And WHY, why, can't anyone see this, sense it on their own and just get it? Can nobody see, can nobody even imagine the toll these last months have taken?

So far, it's like nobody sees. Or maybe nobody wants to. Or maybe we are all so caught up in the hard of our own lives that we've no time for the hard in anyone else's. Or maybe I'm whining. Or maybe this is just the way it goes between now and the stepping off of forever.

I don't really have an answer.
At this point, I'm head down, shoulder to the wheel, pushing to get to the finish.
It could be in sight.
But after the events of this last twelve months, I have no faith that it really is in sight.
And I fear that what I think is the end is really only a slight pause in the difficulty.

And what of it?
There is nothing to be done if it is.

So I keep smiling. And keep lying.
And make this secret post the only hint of the truth that I'm feeling.
It feels a little safe.
Especially since I don't write much anymore.

...the one when circumstances make clear the necessity of change.
...the one when nobody's guessing what comes next.
...the one when doubt becomes impossible.
...the one when you finally get it.

heart. break. ing.

In the end, it's all ok.

Right now though, it's time to shake the dust off our feet and move on.

Still working it out.  Still working on it.

The dearest husband has taken the dearest children out to pick up diapers and bread, the staple items of our daily lives, and to let the small ones wear off their afternoon naps at the indoor play area near our favorite Target.  It's a gift today, though normally, after a day in-house with the ittys, I am more than happy to head out in the evenings for errands.  Right now, though, I am just extra thankful for the moments of still and the dimness of this room.

My head is a wreck.  There are multiple ways to take that, but in this case it's mostly just a two-fold meaning.  My head is a wreck of pain and twitching, the latter being a new symptom that goes along with the monster aches that seem to come more and more frequently these days.  My head is a wreck of lists - the kind of lists that organize what needs to be done and what's coming next, the kind of lists that are usually in order and neat, the kind of lists that have somehow become a monster ache of their own, growing longer and longer with less completion.  Neither of the wrecks does anything to lessen the other.  (At what point in life is it appropriate to hire a personal assistant?)

And it's spring.  My favorite time of year.  Everything here is blooming and beautiful.  The ocean even seems new.  I only want to be out, seeing, breathing, loving, enjoying the time and the new light that spins golden shadows later and later and later into the evening hours.

The physical ache is stifling that.  It's having an effect.  Affecting life and living, forcing hours spent in a dark room with cold compresses and mounds of ibuprofen (thirty-two-hundred-milligrams a day, plus the in-between spots filled with Tylenol is a. lot. of. Motrin) that only dull the pounding.  Now with the added twitching, I'm not sure what to think.  Maybe time to stop self-dosing and see a professional M.D.

I hate going though, because they always have to stick you with something.

Pressing on.

This blog started out a long time ago as a random place for personal therapy. A place I could come and work stuff out on my own, without the pressure of a time table or the need to do it on some kind of schedule. And I guess it is still that. A random place for random thoughts.

3.75
$3 and 75¢.
That is what I paid for the beer I had last night at dinner.
In contrast, my husband paid $4 for his.
His TWO.
That came in a can.
A can that held 4 more ounces (each) than my bottle.
Did I add that my beer was a Miller Lite?
Yes. A Miller. Lite.
And his?
His was a PBR.
I should say, his were PBR-s.
Plural.
...

Ahhhh!! But don't be deceived! I got waaaaay more for my money than did he.
Because my beer,
my three-dollar-and-seventy-five-cent-plus-alcohol-tax-bottle of Miller Lite (yeah, that's right),
mine came with a big ol' mouthful of rust.

RUST.

At least, that's what the manager told me it was when he came over to apologize for the before-then-unknown substance that was all over my tongue and lips after I took my first, before-that-second, happy swallow.

He said he was sorry about the rust, but you know, it's just one of those things that happens with their old cooler if they forget to rotate it ... something about condensation ...

And then we opened our napkins to see two sets of dirty silverware. This after our server introduced herself and explained how just a day or so ago, she'd been throwing up with the stomach virus ...

REALLY? I mean, REALLY?

Stifled maybe? Stuck? I don't know. I think drowning is the word.

The word for today. For this Monday. That's not really bad.

It's how I feel - creatively stuck in a mess that's getting deeper by the moment.

There. is. not. enough. time.

That's the gist of it. There's just not enough time.

Or.

I'm not good enough to manage it. Not talented enough for the undertaking.

It's a toss up at this point. I'm not out here in blogland seeking pity - only a release from the confines of my Adobe files and the lack of my own ability to pro-gress.

Take a break says my creative mind. Keep working says the other.

Can't someone just get me a few more hours?

Really?

We're upset because the President went on Jay Leno. Oh, and he's filling out his brackets.

I don't know how I feel about this.

I mean, I'm unemployed. I'm struggling to find a new job. I got turned down by the mall, for gosh sakes. I'm worried about my family, the economy, our financial future, my career, what will happen to my daughter, cage fighting in public schools, and the last 15 pounds I want to lose.

But, this morning I colored with my daughter. And last night, I went for a walk with my family. I stood on the edge of a cliff and watched the tides roll in from the ocean. I also read a funny comic strip, laughed about some fashion I saw online, and read a few design blogs.

So? Does life continue? Does it go on amid the mess that the richest and most powerful have made of our financial system? Does it go on in the face of the endless possibilities for downfall that all of us face?

Yeah. It does. I don't feel guilty for laughing a little. And I don't expect that the President give up the rest of his life because he's President. I mean the brackets are just for fun. Doesn't he deserve, like the rest of us, a few moments a day to do normal things? Maybe he and his wife have an annual March Madness contest. Maybe it's something he does with his pals from college. Maybe he and his daughters sometimes like to take walks, or play games, or God-forbid, laugh.

On the flip side, I know, in a personal way, how bad things are. And I feel that I have a clear understanding of how bad things could get. So yeah, Leno seems a bit light for the times . . . and maybe a bit light for the office that's long maintained, (at times unsuccessfully) a somewhat dignified appearance. Maybe a comedy show isn't the best way to go. Maybe it does give the appearance that he's not really focused on the huge problems facing the nation. And you know, combined with what every news headline is calling his lack of attention and action on the matter, it doesn't make me feel very good about things. I don't see any changes coming my way.

Still. After reading horrific stories in the news lately about life and death and health and safety and food and war and finances and you name it, it's there, I have a really hard time understanding why, oh, why we are so upset about these seemingly insignificant things. A comedy show, some brackets . . . come on. Don't we have better things to investigate? Don't we have better things to report? Shouldn't someone in the 'news' business get busy talking about what's important?

And yes, for the record, the Special Olympics comment bothered me. But truly, I think if we're honest, we've seen a lot of Presidents do some really dumb ass things. This, in comparison to a number of mistakes I could list, (Marilyn Monroe, anyone?), is small. Tiny. Minute. He didn't toss his cookies at a state dinner. He's not feeling any interns up in the oval office with a cigar. Maybe we can cut him some slack?

And maybe we can stop slacking on talking about the real issues. You know, like the free-dental-abolitionist-movement.

Makes my stomach hurt.

But I didn't fall down. So that's a good start.

Now I only need 10 minutes of dancing to complete my goal of either killing myself of causing hell to freeze over.

We shall see which happens first. I'm betting on the former.