I can be insane in the worst way and blame him for my insanity. And tear at the walls of my luxurious provided-for reality with a vengeance that knows no rationale. Imagining lack in the worst hopelessly pitiful way. I can sink into the quicksand of depression with one negative thought and get sucked so far down that my soul is gasping for breath.... ahhhh!
And then... I can realize, as I listen to them playing in the bath tub, and pause to breathe, and take a moment to collect my pity-filled self, that actually... it isn't so bad. And as I come to the bottom of my tear reservoir, and find an inkling of hope in the collection of synapse connections that make up my thought patterns, actually it's quite good really.
Actually, why am I so sad?... she's so precious... he's so sweet...hmmmm....man, the air conditioning feels so refreshing...wait, what was the problem again?...and then I come crawling up the mountain- deep breath- anticipating the view. And I get to the top of a night off from bath time and bed time (I've been quarantined to the downstairs with my pouty drama queen, far-less-than-grateful attitude) and I sit here...
I sit here... typing; breathing; sighing; surrendering... and I get back to the top of my mountain of self and look out, listening to Him singing to Her in the bath tub and the sound of the fan, and the feel of spacious air around me, smiling to myself a little- not forcing it- too tired to force it. And suddenly the view is nice again and God is good...actually really good... and I might be alright. I might be more than alright. I might be splendid- crazy but splendid : )
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