It’s been said that your twenties are your selfish years, for good reasons. I’ve been thinking that way as long as I have thought I was sure of my eventual plan to leave. The country isn’t for me, that has not wavered. But like a gentle epiphany today, I realised my family is. They are for me, and I for them. A life dedicated to seeing and loving them is not wasted, as I thought, in comparison to seeing the world and living elsewhere. I want that too, but they are not an element to be compromised. I work now for them as well as myself, for they are unspeakably precious. Love is a word too small for there is none great enough to hold all it means. I love my family.
I only have enough stubbornness and fear to take the first step, but the leap that comes after requires courage I cannot find.
Nobody talk to me, ever. When I am intensely grumpy because I am tired and it’s late, DO NOT talk to me. I’ve almost flung my phone to the ground five times just because it was in my hand and would easily hit the ground at a satisfying speed. When I get a house, I’ll need flowerpots and a wall to fling all this painfully kept frustration in. Nothing deep nothing multi layered just intense irritation at the stupid little pricks life brings. I am about to explode into tiny, burning shards.
Like many, I can’t wait to announce the joyous miracle of being pregnant, and I can’t wait to be a mother in a house full of children’s chatter. I am also so excited about adopting a child, a different but no less beautiful way of welcoming another into my heart and family. The bringing home, introductions, and everything else raising a child brings, I would be so privileged and so blessed to know such love and joy.
I’ve got the best. 5 hours of video call with my everlasting person, and celebrating 46 months with the one who completes me.
My eyes ache from the day’s vision but I keep awake because anxiety’s grip keeps me from submission, however natural.
Stunning. Glen Keane is and creates a masterpiece.
My insecurities consist less of specifics and more of a sinking, heavy feeling. I’m not sure if it is insecurity at its core or of self-involvement/obsession. The first is a tedious thought to think it lasted this long, the second- terrifying. To know of its destructive nature and not know how to identify or cure.