This ain’t no place for the weary kind…

I am at a crossroads of sorts.  One that I can’t fully comprehend, therefore can’t explain.  I’m getting many messages from my readers about how well, how upbeat I sound.  Everything from “Your blog is getting good” to “You sound like you’re doing sooo much better!”  While I love the positivity, I find it surprising.  Am I doing better?  I don’t feel better.  Yes, the first 48 hours were spent in fetal position on my parents’ couch… and now I never see  my own couch because I’m out all the time.  But I think, two months in, I’m also practiced in wearing it well.  I reek of organized chaos.  A chocolate-covered cherry, with its hard shell of an exterior and gooey inside.  This notion that I’m healing…  trust me when I say there is nothing I want more.  Nothing.  Allow, me for a moment to wish for my own happiness, before world peace. If just for one night.

But I feel pressure when I hear how improved I am – like I don’t have permission to sink low every night at the end of another day.  That there will be surprise when I continue to feel horribly sad.  I don’t want there to be a preconceived notion that things are rainbows and butterflies.  It doesn’t allow me the permission to experience the daily fog and moths.

I know, I know… you’re thinking, but Eileen, you’re the best person to hang out with EVER.  You’re the coolest, funniest chick around, and a guy would be out of his mind to not want to sweep you up!  It’s just a matter of you choosing which one!  As if I don’t know this.  Please.

Perhaps my most flattering proposal came in the request to have “pretty light-skinned babies” with a certain gentleman who shall remain nameless.  It makes me laugh every time.  Because, goddamit, I’m a hell of a lot of fun.  I mean it.  I’m very important. I have many leather-bound books and my apartment smells of rich mahogany. You should hang out with me. (Call me).

I think I am writing more positively, and letting my humor show through, which may indeed be a step.  But you should all know…I write because I can’t talk about it.  Can’t physically speak about it.  That should reveal how far I have (or have not) come.  Anyone who doesn’t read this blog doesn’t know an iota of what’s going on inside of me.  They just know my address has changed.

I suppose I’m following a brilliant idea: “Speak as if you’re ready. Paste new pictures around your home and office. Physically prepare for the changes that you wish to experience in your life. You’ve done this before. You know it works. You’re due for an encore. It’s time to amaze. That’s why you’re here.”

So, the curtains have closed.  The show has ended.  But the audience cheers wildly for another set.  One more song.  Just a glimpse.  Anything.  Just a desire to see the spotlight flicker on again, if just for a moment.  The applause is thunderous, and every seat is empty.  A lone microphone is set up by a stagehand, and the clapping escalates in anticipation.  From backstage, I close my eyes and listen to the roar.  I peek out to the hundreds wishing me joy, praying for me, cheering and sending me love.  This is my encore.  So, shyly, I enter stage left….


One thought on “This ain’t no place for the weary kind…

  1. For some reason when I read about the gentleman wanting to have ” pretty light skinned babies” with you I thought of Greg!! And it is making laugh hysterically right now!!

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