People who equate truth with fact are missing the point.

Behind My Eyes

I start a load of laundry, take the boy to school, pour a cup of coffee, put the dogs out, answer email.

I fold a load of laundry, make some phone calls, drink another cup of coffee, sit at my desk and write a few listless words that won’t go where I want them to go.

I drink more coffee, let the plumber into the house, fold more laundry, stare at the listless words.

I have little notes on my desk, reminders of the things that, if I could do them, would make me happier, or so I believe…

Tell the truth no matter what.

Give yourself a fucking break.

To thine own self be true.

I breathe.

What is the story, the first story, the one right behind my eyes, the one clogging up all the other stories?

The not-an-answer comes back: I’m tired. So tired.

On the heels of the not-an-answer comes the familiar diatribe: Other people survive. Other people live with worse traumas, larger griefs, more pain. They get the fuck on with it. They create. They work. They move on.

I breathe again.

Give yourself a fucking break.

Do something new, something that will rattle the script and force a change, anything to break the stalemate.

I walk the dogs, call a friend, eat a bowl of rice, say a prayer.

I sit at my desk and the story right behind my eyes is the same as it ever was:

I want my kids I want my kids I want my kids I want my kids I want my kids I want my kids.

I want my fucking kids.

I want them.

But here is the terrible truth: no matter what he did, no matter how terrible it was, he wins.

He has my children.

I don’t kiss my integrity goodnight, or drive it to school in the morning. I didn’t buy my integrity a prom dress or teach it how to drive.

My integrity is a cold and heavy stone when my kids’ beds are empty. Not something in which I take pride, but something I drag behind me everywhere I go.

I’m OK. Really and truly, I am mostly OK. I sing, sometimes, when I do the laundry, and I enjoy the coffee, and the little boy and the less-little boy and the husband and the dogs are lovely and warm and they make me so happy and grateful that I sometimes weep.

Until I sit down to write and the story right behind my eyes is the same as it ever was:

I want my kids I want my kids I want my kids I want my kids I want my kids I want my kids.

I want my fucking kids.

I want them.

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