If Wishes Were HorsesPosted: September 25, 2012
So much to say, and so little to say it with…
I have been intending to write about–hm, shall we say, ‘the circumstances of Abby’s conception’ for probably two months now. Saying that, though, just shows how much I need to sit my butt down and find a euphemism I–hm, shall we say, ‘like.’
See what I mean?
I haven’t begun. Not with words I can see with my eyes. I have composed sentences and paragraphs in my head, mostly while lying awake in bed at night, or sitting awake on the couch early in the morning, or some other time when I feel alone, whether or not I’m physically alone.
I started once. I wrote a few thousand words, and added to it sporadically for three months or so, until the hard drive died, and I lost it. Now I hoard my words, refusing to delete the most daft draft.
Today I read Belle’s post, and I admire her terribly for it. To say and do instead of saying without doing, that is always admirable, but even more so when it’s in spite of fear.
My fear wins in so many ways. The fight for words, the fight for sleep, the fight for peace.
Fighting for words? Most days all I can do is beat around the bush, because I can’t even think the things I want to say. It’s like the monster in the closet, never there in the daylight when I’m prepared to face it, only the lonely darkness when I can’t help but face it in spite of myself.
Fighting for sleep? My night seizures were the worst on the anniversary of the only time I slapped my husband in anger. The day I didn’t write the post I wanted to write, the post I could lock all those memories up in and throw away the key. I’ve still had some, but nothing like the week of no sleep.
Fighting for peace? Every day I continue to not write that post, to not let myself even consider actually writing it.
Fear wins those battles.
But much of the time now, I’m me. I’m not crying and wanting to gouge my eyes out to stop seeing things I never saw in the first place. I’m not throwing books and stopping movies because infidelity is such a wonderful plot device, let’s use it in everything. The hurt is always there, somewhere, but I can go hours without even being aware of it. I can go days without even being hurt by it.
I want those times to be forever.
I want to will wishes to be horses, to force beggars to ride.