Strangely, or perhaps not so strangely, writing that last post made me feel worse rather than better. I am used to some relief upon truth telling, as if somehow by sharing the story, by sharing my truth, I am able to both express where I am, and possibly reveal something that makes someone out there feel less alone.
Today is different. Since I hit *post*, I have felt uneasy. Not as if I have not told my truth, but as if by telling it I was making it more solid, more sticky maybe.
I am not taking it down, but I wanted to say this part too-- sometimes the tender underbelly confessions are more tender than they first appear, or maybe they are bigger than expected since they are actually attached to other sticky things.
I'll be meditating on this, since it feels as if there are unexamined hooks in this for me, perhaps other untaken roads, or options that are no longer options, or simply (or not at all simply) facing some of the collateral damage that comes with aging.
Wisdom? BRING IT
Options falling away since I've literally run out of time? SUCKS ROCKS
Not sure what all the elements are, not sure I will ever know all of them, but there are more messages in this for me and it (and I) deserve some time to feel my way around this.