or I Must Write To Know How I Feel
I had to write about this photograph in three different places before I finally realized that I’m not a terrible person.
I think that, you know. I think I’m a terrible person. I think I’m a terrible person because I have such a hard time loving since Henry was conceived. And I don’t blame Henry. Henry is perfectly convinced that I love him. Because I do love him. But I don’t feel loving. I feel angry, and stressed, and alone, like there’s never going to be an end. Like there will never be room for me because all the other people are taking up too much space.
It sounds kind of desperate, doesn’t it? I had to write about that photograph three times before I realized that I have been in a sort of survival mode for at least nine years. That’s a long time to just survive, isn’t it? But here’s the thing: That photograph was one in a string that now numbers 19. I hope to make it all the way to 20. And then 21. After that, perhaps 22? And making room each day for one photograph has changed everything.
It’s something to think about, plan for, and execute that’s all for me. It doesn’t take a lot of time, and it doesn’t take anything away from anybody else, but it is giving me a sense of peace and well-being that I have been living without for a long time. This one little thing makes all the other trials more than just bearable. I actually found those loving feelings I’ve been missing. So I’m probably not such a terrible person after all. Probably.