Blindspot.

Despite the fact that most of the people who read this blog know me, I tend to treat it as an anonymous airing of the soul.  I pretend that people who know me won't read the posts; I pretend that people who don't know me will stumble upon it and it will light their spirits to know they are a little less alone.  

I pretend that for most I am a blindspot.  

This sounding board I have created over many years and many many many trials has allowed me to vent my frustrations- my anger, my willfulness, my sadness, my disease, my perpetual longing for something just beyond my reach- in the best way I can.  

Silence.  

That is what I love most about writing, I think.  It is a silent venture- save for the scratch of pen or pencil against paper or the staccato clack-clack-clackity-clack of keys depressed one the keyboard.  I can stretch into my words, my sagas, quietly- pursed lips and squinted eyes.  I can explode, implode, scream, retch, laugh, cry, delete delete delete delete all without uttering a single word out loud.  It is... I don't know if I can explain it... 

I have had a lovely holiday season.  I have.  But for several long months I have felt like- I missing something or someone.  I am missing the sounding board.  The person or persons I would turn to vent or lash out my feelings out loud.  Out.  Loud.  It's been ages since I've talked to my husband about what I'm feeling about myself.  And while that seems... well however it seems, it frequently feels wrong to burden him with my ongoing dementedness while we navigate his ongoing waltz with cancer.  And in a way I have become so reclusive with my feelings, so guarded with my internal struggles that I have stopped relying on others to help.  

Not that I was ever particularly good at that anyway.  

What's more, the circularity of it all tends to drive me further and further from opening up.  Because I am struggling; because I haven't sought professional help even though it is the most reasonable way of moving forward; because I know myself.  I know myself.  

I have sat with myself for so long, so long, distant and reflective and always always at odds.  I have shared the burden to a degree but kept a great deal of it to myself like some sort of metaphysical or psychic hoarder.  I ache to tell but I yearn to hold fast.  To stay the course. 

To survive.  

But survival is a lonely thing.