My Heart's Not In It

I don't know what to say. I guess I'm hitting a blogging wall. I find this happens when I'm actually having a LOT of things roaming around the old brain... oddly enough. It's much easier to blog when stuff isn't going on for me internally. Harder when it is.

I finished my book yesterday.

And cried.

And cried.

And cried.

Baby brought me tissues and said "All done cryin'?"

Kid rubbed my back and sang me lullabies.

I still cried.

It tugged at a tap root to my grief that has never been resolved and rarely validated outside of therapy.

You can only pull out a little bit... it goes down forever and won't release it's grip.

Mr F might be the only one who knows how sad I am inside.

And even he sometimes forgets.




This weekend I told Mr F that he never tells me I'm pretty.

I know he loves me. I know he thinks I'm smart and funny and a great mother.

But I have spent 10 years believing that he doesn't think I'm beautiful.

So I cried.

I reminded him that in 10 years he's rarely complimented my looks.

And every woman wants to feel she is beautiful.

To her husband.

Not just the creepy guy at the grocery store, the volunteers at Habitat, and the man with the dog at the video store.

Your actual husband.

I asked him why he would withhold making someone feel good?

But I realize I do it too.

The withholding.

It's protection.