How many times do we say that to ourselves? Not that we should stop trying, but still.
I always think this time it'll be different. I'll be different. I'll keep it all packaged inside with nearly neatly tied bows, and stiff sides that don't allude to the bulging mass of emotions that are always swarming beneath. But this time it really is different. Because this time I know it won't be. It's a fresh start, but its not going to solve anything. I'll hold on as tight as I ever have, but I won't hang onto the illusion that it will be easier here. That doesn't mean it won't be good. I have every intention of doing my best to make the best. But I don't see how I'll ever be able to open up and have friends the way I have here. The messy ends are just too painful and humiliating. And always the same. Its me. Too much of me. Too much emotion. Too much drama. Too much too much too much. I will always be too much. And never quite enough. Apportioned in all the wrong ways and places, and not really destined to make it very far. Broken and muddling.
In the good moments my faith in God is so strong that I can trust and believe that he will fill in for all of the gaps. He will hold me together like some sort of cosmic glue. I am ashamed that in these darker moments, I find myself assuming he won't. Thinking that maybe part of God's will is for my life to be a lesson to others. But a lesson in what? Just a stepping stone, a tragic backstory for my kids to overcome in order to be stronger adults?
I find myself realizing, this time with a calmness and acceptance, that this charade will not continue forever. There will be a time when I will implode. You can't shove this much emotion down without the pressure slowly mounting. And let me tell you, it is at an all time high. I've come to the point where I can't open up the tiniest crack without a downpour squeezing its way out onto whoever happens to be too close at the moment. I'm the TMI girl, desperate for someone to take on just a little of the weight inside, but even those little bits are too damn much, and they have no idea that the amount still stuffed inside is infinitely more, and bigger, and heavier. Like Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton (I'll never be the writers they were, that's not the comparison here) I'm just not meant to last here. Good Lord, if Robin Williams can't hang on, how the hell can I?
I'm safe for now. I can't abandon my family in such a time, but I fear its only a matter of time. One or two breakdowns away... I just need to find a reason to fight it, rather than embrace it.