Learning to Live Again

I have been staring at these blank pages for a very long time now trying to find the courage to type the words that are pent up in my heart.

Fear is a weird feeling for me.  As a rule, I am not a fearful person.  It's conditioning.

Once upon a time, I used to be a vibrant, albeit geeky kind of person.  Alive. In love with life. Not afraid to try new things, or meet new people.

Now, I rarely leave my house and a lot of days I can barely muster up the courage to get out of bed.  I thank the makers of the universe daily for the love of my animals.

You can only live in a state of fight or flight for so long before it takes its toll.  I am a fighter, though, and while this seems interminable, there will come a day where I am happy to get out of bed again.  I am seeing flashes of my old self occasionally, and that gives me hope.

I am cracked, people.  Cracked in a way I would never wish upon a soul.  I would say broken, but I'm not broken.  I will mend my cracks with gold, and carry on stronger than before.  Make no mistake about that.

And still, I am loyal. Twenty-first century Stockholm syndrome.

I live for the days where I take pleasure in simple things.  I live for the nights when my dog lays his head on me and stares at me with his big brown eyes full of love and only asks that I rest my hand on top of his head.

I'd be lying if I said I lived for my cats. I get up for them. They are persistent assholes.  But I love them anyway.  They have been good to me too. They, too, love me. Mostly because I feed them and change their litter boxes.

I am digressing again, so I'm going to leave it here for now.