Sad sad sad. She was sad.

She was the only one in her head. In her inner world, her real world.

Everyone else knocked but she wouldn’t let them in. She leaned her head on the inside of the door and cried and cried. Wishing they could break it down and grab her and tell her a truth different than the one she saw. Thought.

She wanted to be rescued from the prison she built. She’d called it a fortress when wars were coming. Huge armies headed toward her and only her and she didn’t know why. Was everyone else safe in their minds? Did everyone else fling open their doors and love? Did they touch each other and smile and stare into each others’ eyes. Did they see each other for real? In person, face to face?

She thought they did. She imagined them out there in their perfect world together and she was in her mind. Door bolted shut and locked from the inside. Safe from the armies but shut in and out of the big, bold world. It wasn’t magic in her mind. It wasn’t new or fun or soft or safe after all. It was a prison. She’d escaped death to live a jailed life.

Was her self-imposed destiny permanent? She told herself to open the door but she couldn’t. She had thousands of little chains on her arms. She’d reach and reach for the door locks and never reach them. Her chains were important and strong. One was engraved with, “Remember the 5 teenage boys?” Another was engraved with, “Remember her hatred as she screamed?” Another, “He was eating you all up he loved you so.” Another, “He’s watching you drown.” Another, “No one sees you. You walk in front of them and are invisible.”

There are thousands of little chains, each with an engraved message, holding her arms back, leaving her hands just inches from the locks. The chains and the locks keep her safe from more chains. They keep her crying at the door, safe from anyone that would hate her, and separated from anyone that would love her.

Quarantine Day 38

I miss writing here. I miss the times where it felt like I was sharing with friends. In a lonely life raising little kids, it was my happy place. It was where and how I shared with friends that weren’t nearby. It was how I made a lot of new friends who I wouldn’t have met any other way.

Blogs are kinda dead now, though. Mine died, everyone I used to follow doesn’t blog anymore. And I’m too busy to do it. But here I sit anyway. Potatoes cut up and frying in butter a few feet away.

This computer used to be mine. It used to be where I still attempted to get that magic of the early 2000s blogging back. It never worked. It always felt like work. And now this computer is used by my kids.

They all started virtual school this week. There were a lot of hiccups. Turns out you can’t log into some of the things they need to with some of the devices we have. In fact, specifically only their chromebooks are working. Not any of our now-4 laptops, my desktop, my phone, any of our various sizes and brands of tablets…

There’s probably frustration in my typing over that because it is frustrating. If you want a family of 7, with 5 of those seven being school-aged, to log in separately then maybe choose a platform that works across a variety of devices? MAYBE?

Gotta turn those potatoes.

This is the first morning in weeks that I’ve managed to get out of bed without waking up Lyla. She is the lightest sleeper, restless sleeper too, like Ember was. Because Ember was I don’t worry. I remember worrying about Ember for years. She tossed and turned ALL night every night for the first 4 years of her life, at least. I talked to her pediatrician about it. I guess it was just Ember. She sleeps soundly now. So when Lyla wakes up crying regularly I just pull her close and snuggle her back to sleep. Over and over. She tends to settle down halfway through the night and sleeps decently soundly from 3am-7am. Unless there’s any noise, then she wakes up again. So that’s why I’m surprised to be sitting out here typing alone. It’s really nice. I wish every morning started this way. I set an alarm and try to make that happen but like I said, no matter how slowly I creep out of bed, Lyla wakes up. And yeah, still cosleeping. Funnily enough I think since quarantine started people are less judgmental of those kinds of parenting choices. I feel like there’s less mom shame. More body shame, less parenting shame. And I’ll take that trade off!

Lyla just walked through the kitchen and smiled up at me and I picked her up and set her on my lap. She’s resting her head on my chest as I type and I’m gently resting my chin on the top of her head. I love this girl. She’s full of life. Well, I’m going to go cuddle her. I’ll be back later.

When my blog becomes a wasteland. Where words don’t live.

She writes the grossest words. They fill her pages. She can’t stop. Her fingers are tireless. Her emotions are tireless. She is tired. She is dying.

She can’t share it with anyone. She can’t tell them. She can’t unload all of the vilest things she’s seen and heard because of it.

She is tired.

She hears a voice. From a three year old without the grossest words plaguing her mind. The three year old is singing. It is the sweetest sound.

She’s pulled from her mental walk down a dark path and gets up to stir their dinner.

But she won’t forget that the words on her lips were very bad and not to be shared.