Longing

 An older earworm has resurfaced: Harry Styles' cover of Girl Crush. I'm not entirely sure why this particular song is so VERY stuck in my head right now, but it is. Let's contemplate. 

Work has been extremely busy (painfully so), and it's been hard to take a moment to breathe or to seek a moment of zen. I'm plowing through the Things That Need Doing, and I am retaining my patience and my (relative) fortitude. There is precious little time, however, for empathy, sympathy, gentle kindliness, the kinds of sentiments that used to be so important to me.  Am I hardened? Or am I just... tired? Cannot pour from an empty cup. I'm holding on to the feelings that are too personal and too precious to give away right now. 

Girl Crush gives me a moment to feel a few feelings for which there is no time (or no space), the kind of feelings that were so in depth back in the days of youth. I miss the purity and intensity of the longing, the wanting, the wishing for the other person's presence -- a wish so fierce, it burned the edges of the heart. I did not know that those times were the blessedly simple times, before Responsibility became my constant companion in Life. 

Perhaps Girl Crush reminds me of the days when I could put all else aside and think about Love. 

I wish for all of you, the kind of Love that Harry Styles sings of -- but let it be requited, and let it be unencumbered by the follies and foibles of Life. Everyone should be so fortunate. 

Seventeen

Seventeen years ago, I arrived.

We've had a spectacularly difficult few years, haven't we?  Perhaps there's some truth to the saying that teenage years are full of growing pains. 

Nevertheless, she persisted. 

Onwards and upwards, gentle readers. We shall see what the future holds. With a bit of luck, there will be new adventures, sparks of happiness, and moments of contentment and peace and love in abundance. 

Thank you for accompanying me on this journey. I am grateful. 

March Meme

Further to yesterday's reminiscences about Offspring the Second's visit home, this meme turned up in one of my Social Media feeds during March. It encapsulates something I think about often.

I did the best I could while the Offspring were growing up.  I am not sure it was ever Enough.  I was not the best I could be, and I was spread thin, and I did not know how (or who) to ask for help when I was overwhelmed. I wish I could have been more patient, more attentive, more... better.

I am sorry, my lovely Offspring, for the times I failed you. You have always deserved the very best. I hope that as you move through life, you find exactly what you need and what you are looking for. I think of each of you with love, always. 

Restart

 Herself speaks.

I did not mean to stop writing. 

Things got busy, and there was Stuff, and there were Feelings about Stuff, and not enough time to process the Feelings, and... now here we are.  

One of the blessings and curses, I have found, about using antidepressants, is that now there are more Feelings present, and they are felt. The days of numbness of grief and obligation are (relatively) in the rear view window -- but that means that time must now be taken to process feelings as they appear. And they are everywhere: sitting at the table or on the couch, looking back at me from the mirror, riding alongside in the car (they especially seem to love car rides). It gets very crowded. I am having difficulty naming them all, figuring out where they came from and why they are there, and finding the right space for them to occupy. Processing them? Who has the time? 

Apparently, not me. I need to make the time, though. Which is why I am here now: one of the best ways to process, for me, is to write -- and so I need to resume, for my good and for the good of all the Feelings that are wandering around bumping in to one another. 

-----

Let's look back to when we got lost and nearly dropped off the face of the earth, and start there. 

I believe it was in February when the pace of life picked up; and then March happened. I had one false start attempt to try again toward the end of March, without success. It's true that February was significantly occupied by the Orange Project, and there really is not a lot more to say about that.  So let's look at March. 

March always begins with Offspring the Second's birthday, followed in short succession by Beloved Husband's birthday.  Since this year was a milestone for Beloved Husband (sixty!), we worked on trying to get all of the Offspring back here to this desert land for the occasion.  We did not manage to have everyone here at the same time -- Offspring the First already had unchangeable plans -- but Offspring the Second came back home, for the first time in years, and we celebrated his birthday along with Beloved Husband's. Let's talk about Offspring the Second's homecoming.

 And this is why I stopped writing: I am not sure I can write about his homecoming. I'll try, though.

My heart was so full, to see him. This independent, self-confident, fully-fledged person who I raised and saw grow up, now a fantastic adult with a life of his own, with his own plans and friends and job and sphere of activities that are a mystery to me. He is the same as ever -- witty, smart, thoughtful, kind -- and yet wiser and happier than ever before. I am not really part of his life, and although I know that's ultimately the goal of every parent -- to no longer be needed -- it's heartbreaking in a way to know that he exists elsewhere and I cannot see his marvelous self more often, to enjoy the way he is and to vicariously experience his success in life. Yet this is how it should be: he has made his own life, and I am glad for it, because he seems happy. Who could ask for anything more? 

-----

The visceral love for children is an extremely painful experience, because it needs to be contained: it must not oppress the children or be wielded like a weapon.  Children must be set free into the world, unburdened by any expectations from us, or obligations to us. Be free, my children. Go forth and prosper.

My only remaining goal is that I, like my lovely Daddy before me, can somehow, quietly and in the background, make their lives easier for them. And to let them know that I am always here for them. 

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.

-Kahlil Gibran, On Children, from The Prophet

Whoops

 I did not mean to drop off the face of the earth! 

The Orange Project that I have mentioned a few times before, was in high drive throughout the month of February -- occupying SO MUCH mental space, that there was barely room for anything else at all. Nearly all other occupations fell by the wayside; I could barely manage household tasks, Work, self care. And then it finished on March first, and we promptly rolled into several family events in a row, and then I tried to catch up on everything I'd neglected, and NOW HERE WE ARE. 

Everything's fine (thank goodness) with the people I love. On the other hand, the whole political situation of the US (and various countries into which the US has inserted itself without authorization) is a Flaming Dumpster Fire. I read the news with one eye and my head half turned away, alternatively filled with rage and with sorrow and dread. 

I've combed back through my photos over the past two months (it truly is embarrassing that I've neglected the Blog for so long), and there are a few highlights that I'd like to to mention here. I'll take it one item at a time until we are caught up. I'm going to work hard to get back Writing again, because Writing is good for me, and I need to do more things that are good for me. 

So, hello, gentle readers, and thank you for your patience. I hope that this time of quiescence is over.

 Let us start our journey together again. 

Catch-up

Herself speaks.

Let's play catch-up, shall we?  

The house refurbishing continues apace. Today I boxed up the last of the rooms that needs boxing -- that was quite the accomplishment.  This one was the study, and so it was quite the archeological dig:  old school pictures of the Offspring, tax forms, Important Papers, ancient defunct laptops, obsolete mobile phones, CD-ROMs of computer games from over a decade ago. I took down my diplomas, and carefully peeled off the pencil drawings made by the Offspring that I'd taped there, along with three photos: Beloved Husband holding an infant Offspring the Third; my Lovely Daddy and I during my college graduation weekend; a rare willingly-taken (toleratingly-taken) photo of Cherished Friend from a camping trip a thousand years ago.  I cleaned off all of my favorite schoolbooks from the shelf -- my Latin and Greek books from high school; organic chemistry; plant biology -- and put them in a box with the classics: The Phantom Tollbooth (Norton Juster), I Am A Bunny (Ole Risom), Anam Cara (John O'Donohue), The Prophet (Kahlil Gibran), When The Tripods Came (John Christopher), and other favorites. I added the books on lichens and mosses, and medicinal plants. A wealth of knowledge, in a single box. 

I finally threw out my review materials for The Task, though. 

I also cleaned out my closet upstairs. I finally gathered all my formal dresses that I will never wear again and donated them.  They were all beautiful in their individual ways -- velvets, sparkles, fringe or shimmer. They felt so lovely under my fingertips as I packed them up. I felt pretty when I wore them (a hundred years ago, now), and I was sad to see them go.  I hope they will each find a good home elsewhere. 

I moved the bunnies to their new room.  It's out of the regular flow of traffic of the household, but is quiet.  It's smaller, but I will get them a little rug so they can hop out and about in the rest of the house more after the refurbishment is done. 

I was concerned that they would find the move upsetting.  They did seem a bit cranky at first.  But they are adjusting. 

We parted ways with our dining room furniture.  It was old, in need of repair and polishing and tender loving care, and someone was willing to give it a good home. I feel sad and a little guilty, but I know that someone will enjoy it more. I did save the hand-embroidered seat cushion covers, though. It was a rhythmic, soothing process, to remove the hundreds of little furniture tacks. I will restore the embroidery and save the works for posterity. 

I rewarded myself for all the hard work, by speaking with Cherished Friend via Zoom this evening.  It's lovely to see him, to talk about ordinary things. I am annoyed he does not live closer -- how delightful that would be. 

When we said goodbye, the tiny grief of knowing I cannot really be a part of his everyday life and he cannot be a part of mine, flared white-hot for a moment. 

There is no point in crying, though. It won't change anything. I'll just put on my brave face and keep going.  

And that, lovely readers, is all the catch-up for now.

Grow Wings

 Herself speaks.

The house refurbishing: the straw that threatens to break the camel's back. 

Home is no longer a respite or a safe place. It is a sensory nightmare: strangers there so often; noise and dust; nothing where it should be; hours and hours and hours and hours and hours spent sorting, boxing up, moving things from one place to another, Tetris-ing a lifetime's worth of possessions of All The Family into different rooms while other rooms are being worked upon; no bed, just a solitary cot surrounded by boxes and miscellany; Offspring the Third's cats out of sorts, not able to roam comfortably, meowing and poking me in the eye in the middle of the night. (The rabbits, mercifully unbothered.) 

Won't it look nice when it is done, people say. Yes, it will indeed. It will be lovely. Meanwhile, the sensory nightmare continues, the expense climbs, and the amount of time and mental space occupied by the project grows. Relentless positivity about how it will be when it is finished, is not soothing my frayed nerves right now. 

I know this shall pass. It shall pass like a kidney stone. 

And meanwhile, outside life continues: work is busy; volunteering is an enormity; other obligations continue apace. 

Some days -- many days -- it seems as though no one communicates with me, whether by text, email, or otherwise, unless they need something from me. The needs, larger and smaller, come from all corners.  'Tis my fault, really, for being the Reliable Person. People are relying on me. No one to blame but myself. 

No one asks how I'm doing. (Once upon a time, my lovely Daddy used to ask. But as we know, he is gone and at peace. You deserve peace, Daddy. Rest easy.) 

How am I? Overwhelmed. Tired. Annoyed. One foot in front of the other, one day at a time. One hour at a time. 

What do I need? I need peace. It's in short supply right now, though. 

I need space and time to relax, to put things away where they belong, to listen to silence, to be alone. I need the comfort of company of people who don't expect me to anticipate and take care of a multitude of things at any given moment, who would like to talk about things Not Political (because whoooooooooo boooooooy that's a whole 'nother level of stress and anger), next to whom I could sit in the same way that the small dogs used to sit next to me, once upon a time. 

I keep sighing. As Offspring the Third once quoted from somewhere, "If I sigh loudly enough, all my problems will disappear."  Perhaps that will be true. 

In the meanwhile, we try to find music to carry us through. Until we can grow wings.

(Mack Loren, cover of Radiohead's Let Down.)

Sensory OVERLOAD

Alas, I cannot update the blog much at the moment - because house repairs/updates from the flood of last year are in full swing, and HOLY MOLY the amount if noise and shuffling and weeding of possessions and all sorts of furniture and containers and belongings in places where they should not be and clutter and detritus and strangers in the house disrupting the flow of my activities and HELP ME I CAN BARELY FUNCTION. 

I have never wanted more desperately than I do now, to have a safe, quiet, calm place to Just Be. But no. 

And because of Reasons I do not want to talk about, having strangers moving family possessions around in our spaces is upsetting in a very visceral way. These are very nice people, respectful of our things, efficient and hard workers. But I still want to scream, because of Old Buried-and-now-Resurfacing... Trauma (the word, perhaps overly used in pop culture these days, seems appropriate). Beloved Husband, who has not had the experiences I have had, cannot understand. So I must power through the difficulties I am experiencing solo. 

The house will be lovely when it is done, to be sure. My nerves will be frayed. But perhaps once stillness settles over the house again, I will feel better. 

I need a nest. Or a hollowed-out tree. Or the safety of larger-than-life arms to encircle me and tell me it will all be OK (and mean it).  Arms that will not be bothered when I am twitchy or tearful or bent out of shape by the goings on. Because no matter how stoic I try to be, I can only contain so much MUCHNESS at once. 

One day at a time. 

Thirty-Four

 Herself speaks.

Beloved Husband and I have been married for nearly fifty nine percent of my lifetime now.  For some reason, it feels as though it has gone by quickly. Or perhaps the memories of the earlier years become crowded and compacted, like layers of sediment, by the later years. 

Every now and then, a piece of our shared history is unearthed, especially now as we are doing some much-needed upgrades to the house. I wade through a container of grade-school papers from the Offspring, or find an occasional photo from Days of Yore. I sort the box of little T shirts that our elderly rescue dogs wore for comfort. That little hook there? My Dad gave it to us, because it matched the decor in that bathroom -- I'd forgotten until Beloved Husband reminded me. Little pieces of an entire life, slowly being weeded and organized. It's odd, after years of organic chaos of Offspring and pets and Everything, to slowly and methodically tidy all the pieces of our life together.

There's such a sense of -- Completion? Empty nest? -- without any Offspring or dogs or any pets that make noise (the sound of bunnies rummaging in hay is not loud enough to count) on weekends. I feel old? Or tired? Perhaps it is time to plan some new adventures, as we step into this next phase of life. 

We travel on. And time moves ever swifter. 

Fifty-eight

Well, I'm fifty-eight.
It is perilously close
To sixty years old.

On the other hand,
This means I can pick and choose
Which f*cks I will give.

Time Flies/Dragonflies

Facebook flashback reminded me that this beautiful photo was taken ten years ago. 

How I miss those times: walks in the Albuquerque Biopark, conversation and creatures and quiet. It's almost a visceral sorrow, knowing that those days will never come again. 

Sometimes, I am tired of carrying around the sadness of all the losses, small and large, in all their permutations, from the past several years. 

But what is sorrow, after all, besides love with nowhere to go? 

August Aspiration

I am working on taking better care of myself. 

Someone should take decent care of me. And it turns out that I am that someone. 

Naive

It took me nearly 58 years, but I have finally (finally) learned... the Universe is not fair. 

Oh, my naive younger self. 

I grew up in an era of Girl Power! Girls can do anything! and Be whatever you want to be and If you just try a little harder, you will get the right grades/get into the right school/excel at work. Or even, the subtle and unspoken but nevertheless very clear message, if you try hard enough, if you look the right way and say the right things and don't ask for too much but give your all at the right time and in the right place and in the right ways, you will finally be understood and be loved the way you want to be loved. 

If you failed at any task/job/mission, it was simply because you didn't do enough. Do more. Try more. Use more words. Put in more effort. Achieve more accomplishments. Keep going.  Nothing but success. Don't mention not-successes. Those are a shame not to be disclosed. 

I am proud but not surprised, people would say -- because as everyone kept telling you, it was possible to do anything and be whatever you wanted to be.

But: No. No, it is not. 

I have tried my hardest. Done my best. But sometimes, things don't work out. Because Life is Not Fair.

The Universe is full of entropy, and occasional Badness, and full-on Nonsense at times. Sometimes despite careful deliberation, we make the wrong choices; or we make a seat-of-our-pants decision and then must tackle consequences we did not anticipate. We don't remember the multitude of times everything works out fine. We never forget the times things do not work out at all. 

And there is the compounding problem of People: people are endlessly complex. People live in their own worlds. They don't always understand, or do what we would like them to do, or want what we want. We love people who live at a distance (ah, my Offspring, my family of origin, my Friend), and their absence from our daily lives creates a void that cannot be filled. Sometimes, people are hurtful -- whether through negligence, or deliberately. We need people, want people, love people; cannot bear too many people, have been harmed by people, disappointed by people. People. They are exhausting. 

Perhaps I am lucky that it took me so long to lose my naivete -- for with naivete came optimism and hope, and those have carried me quite far. 

Or perhaps, because I held on to my naivete so long, the pain of the emergent realization that Life is Unfair, is exceptionally Deep and Wide and Encompassing. I am struggling right now with the knowledge that I may never accomplish certain things, may never fulfill particular wants. And that's just How It Is. 

The hope that remains, is that one day a greater Hope will come back to me again, and I will find my inner warmth once more. Life is Unfair, yes. But perhaps I can, through Grace, make it a little better where I am. That's the best I can do. 

Duck

Herself speaks.

I am cleaning out closets -- an onerous task, to be sure -- and sorting contents of all sorts of miscellaneous boxes.  Old school papers, dollies, drawings, Legos, Care Bear miniatures, costumes. All of the memorabilia of the childhoods of the Offspring.  And I came across a box with some baby things: some fuzzy onesies, the little blue winter jacket that everyone wore, a duckie blanket. 

My heart. How are the Offspring so grown up now? 

I miss seeing them. They are such lovely people, the Offspring. I hope the Universe spins in their favor, always. 

Where We Are All At

 Herself speaks.

One of my goals for myself is: to meet people where they are at. 

It's a challenge, because: where, exactly, are they at? 

I know that I want certain things. In particular, I want certain things from certain people. It's important to acknowledge reality, though:  sometimes, what I want is not within the realm of what people are able to provide to me. It's not that they are deficient, or wrong, or otherwise at fault. (Nor am I, come to that.) It's just that we want different things. I need to respect their capabilities and their limitations. (As they do mine.)

Let's take the rabbits as an example. I sure would enjoy if any one of them would let me pat them. I want that. (So much.) However, not a one likes to be patted. My desire to pat a rabbit cannot somehow magically cause them to hop over and sit on my lap for pats. I have to meet them where they are at -- which is to tolerate sitting in the same room, and for me to offer them snacks which they will accept from my hand. That's the best that they, and I, can do together. 

And I must extend this understanding to my People. I want what I want; but what I want is borne of my own needs and desires and hopes. They have their own lives; their own wants and needs; and their own abilities to do and to see and to understand. I need to recognize where they are at, and meet them there. 

The question then becomes: how loudly -- and specifically -- do I speak what I want, in case they are able to meet me at that place of want? And how prepared am I to hear, no, that is not within my capability?  

I want to be understanding of the "no" of others: to be able to say "no" without being criticized or rejected for doing so is a rare gift.  At the same time, my fear of a constant stream of "no" renders it difficult to even ask in the first place.  But if you ask for nothing, you get what you ask for. 

It's a quandary.

It has been pointed out to me more than once, that my ongoing --- inability? failure? hesitancy? --- to specifically state what I need or want, has essentially trained those around me to assume that I can take care of myself and all of the things without help. That's... not inaccurate. Yet all that knowledge does, is make me feel bad for not using the exact right words, or for not asking multiple times, or for otherwise not being *just* the right way to somehow elicit the response that I may have needed at a particular moment. That's not helpful. I don't need that pointed out again.  

The best I can do, I think, is to consider carefully all the factors; to ask for specific things; to understand the "no" that may invariably arise; and to keep going.

One step at a time. 

Flying Solo

Herself speaks.

There are times when it's clear to me that all of my Important People are up to their eyeballs in Things, and do not have the wherewithal to listen to, or inquire after, me. In those times, I simultaneously want to help them in any way I can (because I love them and don't want them to be overburdened), and want to run away from them (because I myself feel like a burden). 

For example: there may be things in my head that I want to talk about, or current events that are burningly annoying/terrible and warrant discussion. Or I might be having a moment or something is bothering me, or I feel invisible, and I would like nothing more than for someone to ask, "how are you?" Yet my efforts to initiate a conversation don't yield a satisfactory dialog, or there is silence, or there is just enough response to indicate that the person is so immersed in their own morass that it's clear I should not try to continue to elicit anything more. 

What can I do? I cannot will people to devote brain space to inquiring after my wellbeing if they simply don't have the bandwidth. I cannot dig them out of their own bogs. I cannot (will not) provide both sides of the conversation (I talk to myself enough already).  

Eventually, I'm embarrassed that I've tried to initiate a conversation in the first place. I feel needy, ashamed for wanting a listening ear, burdensome. And I want to run away. 

It's hard to convince myself that I am entitled to take up space in the world. 

There is nothing wrong with wanting reassurance, care, a little bit of Love. I freely and willingly give these things to other people -- why is it so difficult to acknowledge that I, too, would like these things? 

I am allowed to ask for what I need (recognizing, always, that asking may yield "no"). Why do I feel like even asking has too high a price? Am I merely avoiding vulnerability by trying to convince myself that I should be able to do All The Things by myself? 

Once upon a time, when I first joined the taekwondo gym and found myself a group of friends, I was so delighted to be freed from the isolation in which I had lived so long as a telecommuter/stay-at-home mom. It was so beautiful to have a group of nearby friends. I thought I might have unlocked the mystery of  People. 

I was mistaken, though. 

Time has passed.  Though I now work in an office, I do not talk meaningfully to (m)any people on a daily basis (though if Beloved Husband is not too busy with work, I may be able to sneak in a conversation with him when he gets back from the gym at 10 PM). The Offspring have all grown and moved out. My one true Friend from the taekwondo gym has moved Oceanside. 

The isolation of the beforetimes has been resurrected. 

I need to Try Again. 

I do not want to Try Again. 

But I know I must. 

For now, though, I shall fly primarily Solo. 

Duet Under A Tree

A long marriage is two people trying to dance a duet and two solos at the same time. ― Anne Taylor Fleming

Herself speaks.

While Beloved Husband and I were at our alma mater a couple of weekends ago, we took a walk out to the golf course near campus. We looked carefully, and we found we found what we are sure is the tree under which he proposed, thirty-six years ago. It has grown quite a bit in the intervening years, and is just as beautiful now as it was then.

I don't think either of us had any idea way back then what the future would hold. And now, here we are -- we have been through so many years together, so many milestones. The only thing I knew back then when he asked me to marry him, was: I wanted to be the very best wife I could be for him. I still do today. I still try, every day. 

I am fortunate in that after all this time, even beyond love, I also like Beloved Husband. He's smart. He's funny. He's curious about the world and always learning new and interesting things to share. He wants the best for his children. He is devoted to his family and to his friends. 

He's the Quintessential Congenial Person: Cheerful, Charming, Likeable, Talented. Everyone loves him. The only problem with this, is that there is not enough of him to go around. So many demands on his attention and his time. It must be hard for him to prioritize, being pulled in so many different directions at once. Sometimes (oftentimes) I feel as though I get short shrift. Not something I considered under that tree, so many years ago. But what is to be done? I cannot change What Is. 

The best I can do is work on my own solo dance, until he is available for moments of our duet. 

Sweet Sixteen

 Sixteen years ago, I arrived. 

It's been quite the journey.  (The past year, in particular, has been... a bit much.) Posting has been slow at times, verbose at others, and there have been many, many moments of introspective ruminations. 

Thank you, gentle readers, for wandering on this journey with me. It is good to have the Company, and I am Grateful. 

One we go.

Eleven, and a Few

 Herself speaks.

It's been eleven years (plus a few days) since the Unmooring. I saw the anniversary of the day approaching, felt its presence creeping ever closer -- and yet, I did not dwell on it. It washed over me and moved past, like a comet in the night sky, silently moving in its annual orbit. I continued my work, and my Work, knowing that it will be back in another year.  Like solstice or equinox, rainstorms or blowing winds, it's just another fixture in the passing of the seasons. 

I have reached a point where the appearance of the Unmooring no longer carries with it that grief which once brought me to my knees.  I have been changed. I cannot go back. The sorrow is etched and the scars remain, but I can no longer choose to reopen the wounds. To tend to myself, I must let all the feelings of the Unmooring drift away.

One step at a time, on I go. 

The Tough Get Going

 I've reached the when the going gets tough, the tough get going point of things.

There's a lot going on: some projects coming to a close, other projects gearing up; regular work; supporting (significantly) someone close to me through some Difficult Times; mundane Daily Activities; and my own Stuff. 

I got to the point earlier this week when I started rehearsing in my head, possible requests to my Important People, about needing more support -- a few more casual conversations that don't involve people Needing Things from me, a bit more facilitating of all the little things I do not have time for, or even just the asking, "How are you doing?"  Because no one actually asks. Ever. People assume I am Fine and Capable and Handling All The Things. 

I am indeed Capable and Handling All The Things. Fine, though, is a relative word. 

I'm moving forward. I'm doing the mental work. I'm taking care of myself as best I can (it might not be optimal care, but it really is the best I can do). 

I want to ask people for more. To care a little bit more. To take interest in my existence more. To walk my path with me a more. 

But then I viscerally reject that desire, and back further up into myself, ask even less, talk even less.  Nothing is worse than wanting more, asking for more -- for to ask for more is to show vulnerability. Asking is no guarantee, and in fact may yield less, when others see my neediness and walk away. People do not want to get involved, to commit to the burden of supporting another person.  So I will avoid rejection, avoid criticism, avoid knowing that I am not worth the effort of others, by moving forward by myself. 

The going's a bit tough at the moment. But I have packed up my feelings for now -- there will be time to feel them later -- and am getting going. 

One step at a time.