I write because…


I put on the happy face, the friendly smile and the appearance of being OK. Behind that though, things are a completely different story. I’m sure anyone who takes the time to look in my eyes could see the truth. I was having coffee with a friend the other night that has a very little bit of knowledge of how things have played out this year and he said, “things will get better. Just give it time”. Now I appreciate the positive encouragement but it is just not that easy….and I do not know that it will happen. If my friend only knew the whole story but if I cant or won’t talk about it how could they know right.

It has been almost 8 months now since I have seen my dog Harley. Another month has gone by where I piece together whatever shattered heart I have left, where I piece together a little happiness or at least a passable impression of it. I have to take solace in hearing the bits of occasional news, which is better than no news at all.  Hearing about Harley being referred to as “someone else’s” dog is something that breaks my heart, I feel like it is sending me into a panic attack every time.

Writing, my solace during the bad times for over a decade is not what it used to be. I find myself writing now because it’s my job and I love my job so I keep doing it; but not because it makes me feel better. I, for years and years wrote in a journal to make me feel better. After what happened earlier this year…well writing helped take my mind off it, for a bit. Then there was therapy, which also worked a little bit. Money issues though have prevented me from going as much as what I would like to and it has been awhile. I try and journal, I try to get it out there and off my mind so I feel free but it just doesn’t cut it.

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For a long time I felt like I was in a tunnel and I believed that there was some sort of light at the end of this tunnel. I believed those things that have plagued me would as my friend says, “get better”. Despite how I appear lately, I usually do believe in the positive side of things, that things will in fact work out in time. At least I used to. I was with someone for a few years and believed this even if no one else knew. For me now though with many things I do not know that I believe that any longer. At least I don’t hope for them.

I am still in that tunnel, have not seen the end and stopped smelling for a hint of fresh air. I occasionally wonder if there is an end, if there even is a light. Did I invent that light like women invented the spark? I have learned to live in the tunnel, accepting its darkness, brutality and stark loneliness. I have learned to find a few small things to make me happy, to keep me positive even in the most arbitrary of ways or maybe it is just busy work. Is this what a person in hell feels like, those few small things that people there cling to so it keeps them grasping to the idea of hope when it does not actually exist. This tunnel of mine goes on forever, as far as I can see. Some days I just want to sit instead of walk, instead of push forward linger in place. I have trouble seeing past the next set of headlights coming my way. I have trouble caring if anything is there at all.

I write because it is my job, I write because I love my job. I write because sometimes it feels like it is all that I have left in this world. The question is what happens if that is no longer there. And now it’s lightning outside and I think of Harley as I always do.

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