Since March, it seems, every word I have written has been dipped in poison!
What is it about heart aches and heart breaks that bring out the worst in people?
For hours now, I have found myself pondering that very question. Why was it, I ask, not enough to have slowly regained a significant portion of my health? Why have I not, I went on to question, taken more time to dwell on the positives of life rather than the negatives? Is it not enough to have three healthy children, wonderful memories, and a wealth of rather rich and varied experiences for which many would give a right arm (or at least a left foot)?
For weeks now, I have been "fumigatin'" over a number of issues: the inevitable disappointments of life. Anger over the demise of what I thought to be a lifelong friendship, resentment over the changing attitudes born of the change in socioeconomic status (from semi-successful editor to gravely ill "nobody"), frustration over the added stresses my children have been forced to endure, and a complete lack of enthusiasm for everything which once lent beauty and purpose to life have all but eroded the luster of vitality from my usually bright outlook on life.
Because I survived what was thought to be certain death?
Because the return to the Land of the Living was not the triumphant reentry I had imagined?
Because I got my lil ol' heart broken?
Because a friendship I never could have anticipated, never in my fondest imaginings could have conceived, ended in disillusionment?
Because my children are healthy and happy, just not rolling in the dough I was so sure I had kneaded for them?
Because love "done let me down"?
All these things should be reason to pick up the pen and cover paper with enough doodles and curlicues to fill several volumes.
So why haven't they been?
So many questions!
And not a single answer...