It's been a long time, and you can't really call it angst if it's simply part of your life, but--I've been having family issues. One of my kids is sick, and it's occupying a lot of my time, mind, and life. Funny how you figure--they grow up, you'd get over the part where they get sick since they're not small anymore. Not cute, I guess.
I recently talked to someone who said she had the impression grief had a shelf life. You'd take "this" long to get over an illness, and "that" long to get over a death. Not for the griever, but for the waiters--people waiting for whoever it is in mourning to snap out of it and come back to themselves. I suspect I'm in pre-grief. If you've read my blog over the past four years, you might know that I lost my husband, and that makes it sound like I misplaced him or something, but it's a little more elegant than saying he had a stroke. Funny how I imagined we'd have more time. Twenty-eight years is a long time, and we wasted a lot of it arguing and bickering over all the usual things--money, the kids, jobs and where we'd go on our infrequent days off together. Massanutten is on my no-go list, simply because we always meant to go and never did. And Limestone, because it wouldn't be the same without him.
My kid has been sick for a long time, but earlier this year--he got worse. I suspect I have issues. I never had a chance to say goodbye to Jack, take that trip to the Appalachians, or sit and talk about things that mattered to us. Not bills, not the kids--but us. And I'm trying to make up for it by listening to my kid, and being there when he needs me. So one day--hopefully many years in the future, I won't have regrets.
I used up a lot of time and energy recovering from Jack, finding my way as a single mother, dealing with my kid's issues and the constant, sucking emotional black hole of being unable to fix my child. Much as I loved the workshops and everything else I juggled, my schedule was brutal. I suspect--no, I know--I had a temporary breakdown and reached the end of my rope. There are only so many years you can live on three hours of sleep, a four pack of energy drinks and sheer, stubborn will. The hives and anemia were just part of a larger problem.
I shut off everything after my last workshop--and didn't talk to anyone for months. It's taken months, but I can now see exactly how much emotional load-bearing I can do on any given day. Writing is helping me to cope. I thought I'd lost it, but I suspect the pressure to perform and leftover guilt from spending the time I had left with Jack immersed in my fantasy worlds had a lot to do with it. It's not much, just some fluffy goofball erotica. I started out as a regency writer and can't seem to escape, except for my StallingCo stuff. Maybe I'll dig out and dust off my first story, I dunno. The pressure is gone and I'm just writing for myself. I always did like Danton.
Barring something horrible and unforeseen, I should be back to normal--have I ever been normal--soon. But in the meanwhile, if you could spare a kind thought or a prayer for my son, I'd really appreciate it.