Words on the Horizon

Often this is how I feel, like my words are on a nearby horizon - mine - but not formed just yet in a way that makes sense.

I have been working on a post for nearly a week, but held back from pressing the publish button - instead re-reading the text again and again.

It makes sense to me, but I fear it won't to you. I'm afraid you see me as the strong angel mother who somehow has it all together after eight-plus years. Sometimes I am, and her memory fills me with joy and bittersweet celebration - similar to a mother's teary smile as she watches her daughter walk down the isle and marry the man of her dreams.

But - sometimes I'm not. And, although my unexpected breakdowns are - admittedly - few and far between, they do happen. And when they do, they are ugly, time-shifting episodes. I am certain the calendar lies and this is Sept, 2000. My heart breaks all over again into infentessimal pieces as I scramble to pick them up. And, I completly embody the broken woman who cried over a still body all those years ago.

This happened last Friday night and lingered, morphing my personality, crippling my ability to take care of my family until Saturday afternoon. If not for my husband, who has grown so much in his own soul and grief instantly understanding what I needed - even when I couldn't make the tiniest of decisions (sugar or honey in your coffee? I....dddooon't.....knooowwwww - I wailed); I would have been lost to that world for, who knows how long.

I trust you. I love you all. In five months you have become my extended family who resides all over this great country (and beyond ;) I want to share this with you, but I need to know that you want to hear it. Maybe you don't. Maybe you prefer the Cara in her pinstriped pants and crisp ironed shirt who can weather any emotional shitstorm.

I said I would go back, re-live and write about it. I never expected to be admitting it in the present - not like this.

I think I'll go read that post - just one more time.

In grief and love - and trust -

Cara