On the Line

I had so much time to think, so much time to stew and fret and dream while I was sick. I thought of about fifty different posts I wanted to write, and managed to at least title a few so I wouldn't forget. I save those as drafts to come back to later. If you knew me- like you're getting too but probably not that well yet since this blog is only a little bit old, and not really. This blog is really young. I feel really young sometimes too- not in that vibrant toss me a bikini way, but more of a tender baby bird way, and mostly just with my feelings. My skin has started to do the crepe-y thing when I gently bunch it together, god knows that is not young. Or young feeling. When I bunch my feelings together they do something new and different too. And it's a very breakable feeling.

Like I was saying...if you knew me you'd know that patience is not my best act. It's actually one of my worst routines. Ever. I'm sitting here now wanting to get to the end of this post so I can see how it turns out. I always rush the end. Saving drafts of posts is like torture. I get frustrated doing housework because it's taking too long. Sometimes the childrens' pace makes me want to burst Hulk-like from my skin, and then turn around and smack myself for being such an asshole. Sometimes I'm so mad at my husband but I'm really just mad at my own self. I want to cause a fight entirely to get to the end.

I suspect all this comes from a few places: childhood dramas, hiding from my alcoholic self trying to make it look like everything is fine look here if we rush by in this blur you can't see how hungover I am! or if I speed everything along then bedtime comes faster and I can sleep and not deal with anything. Anything at all.

It's funny how God, or the universe, or mother nature- whoever or whatever you pray to or talk to- aligns things just right so even when you're rushing by you can't help but pause. A spiritual speed bump. A soul ka-thump.

I have felt very proud, and very in control being sober all these days in a row. I feel far away from that heartsick woman who healed herself with too much wine and denial. But I'm not quite sure how to make this sober me wait. To take my time. To shut the fuck up before I put my foot in my mouth again. (Since I tend to process out loud all over people instead of in my own head.) To not expect everyone (like husband) to have a great healing just because I'm getting my shit together. To understand that years of hurts don't just disappear because I put down my wine glass and said "I'm sorry".

Agh. That's what's hard. It's hard to make up for being drunk. For the things said and done when booze ran the world. It's hard to sincerely apologize for something you don't really remember saying or doing. Especially when you pretended so well that you did remember when you were actually in the middle of a blackout. Again, and again.

It's hard to feel "well"  and then feel that shame. Oh, the shame. What a beast. What a burden.

It's hard to be patient and let the beauty unfold when you've finally put it all on the line.