Usually, I title my blog posts before I start writing. I do it to keep myself on topic (though it rarely works: self-confessed rambler over here), but today I’m just trying to climb a really, really high wall. Except the wall looks more like a mountain. So, I don’t know what to call this blog post. I’m hoping something will come to me by the time I finish writing it.
I feel that I need to write this post now to climb the wall, not to jump down to the other side, but just to climb it and sit ready and waiting to have the courage to move forward. This has been a rocky six months, but the past couple have been the hardest.
For now, I’m not somewhere I can sit with the sun shining on my back, facing the storm behind me to share the journey I walked (and continue walking) with you. But I’m hopeful that I will be. I’m being patient with myself. I’m healing. Sometimes, I’ll be flakey and cancel plans at the last minute. Sometimes, I’ll spend the day in bed with the covers over my head. Sometimes, my biggest achievement of the day will be having a bath (probably featuring my steady supply of Lush bath bombs). Sometimes, I’ll share things with you. Sometimes, I won’t. Sometimes, I’ll laugh until my belly hurts. Sometimes, I’ll cry until my head hurts.
The people around me have picked me up, to support me with all their combined strength when mine is empty, and to surround me with an incredible abundance of love.
I’m on a road and I promise you that I’m walking (even if I look like a drunk monkey trying to walk in stilettos with a ball balanced on my head as I do it). Looking at the long road ahead of me, the road to recovery, is terrifying. I’m hopeful. I’m a hopeful sort of terrified, a terrified sort of hopeful.