Holiday From My Holiday [ramblings]

Holiday from my holidayMost people sit before the Thanksgiving feast and share waht they’re grateful for. Shares of peace, family, a roof over the head- they’ll be repeated for decades on end. I didn’t sit in that category this year. Yes, I’m truly appreciative of all those listed and more, but I found myself in a slump before Thanksgiving even began.

I had a lot going on, but mostly NaNoWriMO (of which I won as of 11/19, like a B.O.S.S.). I pushed and pushed, even when I didn’t feel the inspiration. During November, he understands my goal, so he assumes all my household responsibilities, except teaching. He’s an admitted, awful teacher. But I honestly found no peace, no fulfillment in my writing. I’d fallen into one of ‘those’ slumps again.

So for eight days, we hid away in a cabin, in the Georgia mountains. An 8-hour drive that I didn’t have to drive one mile. I listened to silence or an audiobook. Then wile there, my hubby did all the cooking and cleaning, telling me to relax and find my inspiration. And I did!

I wrote a short story, where a character with my husband’s name is shot in the throat by the main character. Therapy. Now don’t get me wrong, I love my husband dearly and I’d never really shoot him with the gun described in my book, of which I actually own. He’s a good man and growing father and husband. he just wanted me to write something and feel better so bad, that I used him as my muse. LOL He loved it, but didn’t liek that it was his name. Or that the characer shared many similarties. Hey- and author writes what the soul wants written, yeah?

I walked in the woods, kicked my feet through leaves and jumped at every scurrying sound in the distance. I soaked in the hottub and relaxed in a jetted tub. All of them allowed me to relax, but my mind wouldn’t stop. It was only when the guys would leave that I truly felt peace. This pensive state brought on thoughts of wanting to escape, to flee the ones I love the most. I’ve imagined myself running to another country, trashing my passport and becoming a street urchin. A grown-assed urchin!

What is wrong with me?

I could never abandon the man who’s given me everything and only asked that I remain loyal and faithful to him. And my son- I fought to carry him and his two siblings (my son was a triplet)- how could I leave him when he depends on me for everything, daily? I also have a daughter but she’s grown, but she has two little ones and another on the way. They love me. And yet, I’d leave them if I could. Just for the silence.

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My smile is from love, but I don’t always recognize it. I don’t recognize the female in the photo either. There’s so much wrong with me. Layers upon layers of sadness, misunderstandings, mistakes, regrets, darkened only by the years of unfulfillment are all I see. My dark eyes are the well of wasted tears, never to dry.

Christmas is coming and I have to pretend to be cheerful and lively. I will have to sing in the Christmas program at church- hopefully with no lead for me. I can’t lead; I’d be a sham of the woman I used to be. I keep digging for her to resurface, but she’s elusive. I am hiding. I refuse to leave church, because the house is a house of sinners, looking for a way home. That’s me.

I’m just tired of looking.

So I wa supposed to have shared with you that I’m taking the day off from ¬†writing. I’m going to read and relax before getting back to teaching and housekeeping tomorrow. I’ve said too much… I haven’t said enough.

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