I'm in a why kind of mode and those aren't good. Why's breed like bunnies, without any answers in sight. And it wouldn't be so bad except they're all the same why's every single time. You'd think after 35 years that they'd change their tune, but you know what? It doesn't really happen. Some of the words might differ from song to song, but the underlying melody is always the same.
Is it so wrong to just want to be good enough? And why is it that my definition of good enough for me is so wildly different from my definition of good enough for other people? Why can't I change that?
See? More of those damn why's.
I hate them.
And I don't hate very easily. I tend to consider it wasted energy, energy that I could be redirecting into something productive. Hate is never productive. Hate destroys. I do not want to be a destroyer. I *won't* be a destroyer. I don't want to let them win like that.
But it feels like they still are. It feels like all the gains I've won, all the advantages to my life that I've been graced with over the past few years, are illusions, because they're all still there, still lurking in the background, determined to see me crying on my knees in front of them or cowering in the closet as I try to hide.
And the ironic thing of all this is that part of me---an amazingly large part, considering how much I've been given over the past few years---truly and honestly believes that that's where I still belong.
Most of the time I lock that part away and ignore it. That's how my mind works. It's the only way I can function. I have so many closed doors inside my head that pretty soon, I'm going to run out. But for now, it works. It allows me to get through the days, to face my kids with a smile and try and find the best in everything.
But on days like today, where circumstances and hormones pick the lock and throw the door wide open, I find myself staring at the child I try to forget, the one who was too timid to open her mouth for fear of what might come out or what might happen if she did so, the one who just wanted to be good enough so that they would stop with their torture, and I realize that I still know her far too well.
And part of me is envious of her. Because she still believed that things would be better. That the world was this wonderful shiny place where anything was possible. And though she had the same incessant need to abandon herself to the stories that came to life inside her head, she still believed that something might happen with it someday.
Blech. This is *so* not what I need to be thinking right now. I'm off to finish up my door blurbs. Just ignore my mindless prattling. I usually do.