I Am My Own Best Counsel

Just reading old blogs that I haven't touched in months, and there they are: the words I have been stuttering out over the last few weeks as I have sorted through this mess to find some answers. All my brilliance, all the thoughts that it took all my energy to dredge up were already here in black and white, right under my nose. At least now I know I am on the right track.

I have a big decision to make, bigger than other ones I thought were big. I have been offered a good job, the one I want, and my chest tightens every time I think about it. If I take it, I might burn out and never recover (hello, Fear! You've been MIA lately); if I don't take it, then it'll screw me out of a job in the fall, the job I really really want. I feel...trapped. AHHA! Oh self-illumination, you've done it again. I feel trapped. I do not feel free to make a decision because both feel like the wrong one. Is there another one? Is there something in between, or something so far outside the box that it makes these look like twin suckers? 

Leanne, you have to make a decision. This is your life, and you're never waking up.


In Mourning

When something traumatic occurs that forces life to change unalterably, a piece of you dies. I don't mean in some strange, emo way, but rather a piece of the You that you might have been. With it goes an entire life of choices, would-haves, and should-bes that can never be chosen now. 

I have never been "good" at mourning, if it's even possible to be good at something like that. Some people just seem to have a knack for dealing with the hand that is dealt, going through the five stages and whatnot, and then moving on with their lives. I tend to stay as shallow as possible; if the pain were to actually reach the depths of my heart and break and bend things to the point where they could be reset and healed, I would begin to forget and let go. How could I ever let myself forget? And I am no better when it comes to mourning myself.

The last three years have been...difficult. That doesn't even begin to describe it. And now that I am stepping out and can see the sun again, I am realizing that the only piece of my life that is missing is me: the Me I wanted to be, the Me I should have been. I can never have that life, I can never be that girl, and no one else could understand. The war is over, I've come back home, and everyone else is going on with their lives as usual while I try to adapt to life without using weapons as answers. 

My life is great, I have everything for which I could ask. The only thing missing is me.