I was always the girl who said what she thought. It seemed easier in theory, but it’s gotten me into trouble more times than I care to count. I don’t regret anything I’ve ever said. Most of the time it needed to be said, even if it was hard. If I shouldn’t have actually said it, I probably at least learned something from the experience.

Maybe this is why I like blogging. It’s my way of saying all the crazy shit that comes into my head. It’s the way I keep memories I don’t want to lose, and lose memories I don’t want to keep. It’s nice to have an audience. The more frequent my posting has gotten this year, the more followers I’ve gotten. I have a lot of people who I don’t know who follow this, but also a lot of friends I get texts and facebook messages from about how much they enjoy these posts. I think that is wonderful because writing is always so universal in that way. Whether you went through a similar experience and can relate, or maybe you wish you did, there is something for someone in any kind of writing.

Lucky for me, it gives me practice for my writing. And a creative outlet is always the healthiest way of dealing with stress. And believe me, I’ve got loads of it lately.

I know I should write about how I’m feeling about my mom, but I’m not ready. I promise, it will come. But lately, all I can think about is this quote from the book Wild.

“It hadn’t occurred to me that my mother would die. Until she was dying, the thought had never entered my mind. She was monolithic and insurmountable, the keeper of my life. She would grow old and still work in the garden. This image was fixed in my mind, like one of the memories from her childhood that I made her explain so intricately that I remembered it as if it were mine. She would be old and beautiful like the black-and-white photo of Georgia O’Keeffe I’d once sent her. I held fast to this image for the first couple of weeks after we left the Mayo Clinic, and then, once she was admitted to the hospice wing of the hospital in Duluth, that image unfurled, gave way to the others, more modest and true. I imagined my mother in October; I wrote the scene in my mind. And then the one of my mother in August and another in May. Each day that passed, another month peeled away.”
― Cheryl Strayed, Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail

That is more than I can form in my own words right now. It hurts too much. I don’t want to open up, because I’ll bleed until I’m nothing but a rotting corpse and someone will have to throw me over their shoulder and carry me away. I’m strong, but only because this weakness might kill me if I open up to it. So I keep sewing my insides tighter, and tighter, and while it is harder to breathe like this, and I’m sure I’m suffocating, at least I’m being held together, even if it’s just by a thread.

Despite everything going on with my mom, there’s something good happening too. You know in the beginning of things, when you can’t get enough of someone, and even a simple text can make your stomach do back flips? Well it’s kind of the best kind of feeling, and I’m okay if I can get high on it for a while. I’m a flight risk. I know this. I’ve had really shitty pasts with guys and I’m always finding even the smallest reasons for why things can’t work out, so I won’t get hurt, but something feels different about this one. Maybe it’s too easy. But I’m giving into it. It may go nowhere. It may go everywhere. But you can’t know unless you try, right? He seems like a good guy. He seems honest, and caring, and like such a gentleman. He even seems to appreciate my brashness so far. I’m sure he will get sick of that part though, they always do.

Well, this bottle of wine won’t drink itself, and I’m dealing with a best friend crisis as well. It’s hard talking to your best friend when their girlfriend hates you (for no reason) but I can’t imagine my world without him. We helped each other through some pretty dark times, and our bond is deep. I know a lot of people don’t understand when there’s a male/female BFF dynamic, but I think what works with us is that I’m the man, and he’s the woman. We are complete opposites. I don’t know why she hates me so much. You’d think, if she was smart, she’d get me on her side so I could help when he bitches about her. But whatever. I made sure they got together, so now I have to deal with her hating me. Doesn’t make sense, but what’s a girl to do?

Thanks for reading, ya’ll. I promise I still have more Europe posts in me, and they will come when the time is right. So much seems to be happening so fast. I can’t always keep up. But I appreciate all your kind words, and I’m eternally grateful to all of you who have shared, liked and donated to my mom’s ovarian cancer fund. It has meant the world to me. If you haven’t already and you’d like to, here is the link: http://gfwd.at/1hjz8rj

xoxo,

Katie