Back again, after a long sabbatical. Sometimes it's just too hard to write, literally and figuratively. Pain in my hands isn't always the issue, though, and I shouldn't use it as an excuse.
But the other nagging aches....where to begin? I know what's causing the insomnia and bad dreams: fear of change, that if I leave, it will all be too real, too different, and everything I've already left behind will really be behind me, and it hurts so much to think about what I've lost, what I've done, whom I've hurt.
I walk away. Really well. I've faded out of my own life more than once. Faded. There's no high drama. I withdraw when I'm stressed; I'd rather eat glass than ask for help, so it's easy for me to drift away from people. Occasionally, I can lose touch with someone for months, even years at a time, and then pick up where I left off. (You rock, Smersh!) That's actually what happened with my husband. We met in college, but were off-and-on for a very, very long time. For the most part, though, it's as if I forget that people can see me, even if I don't notice my own absence.
One of the few things that's been constant over the last decade has been home. A tumultuous early life has made me very attached to the first place I ever felt at home, and I don't want to leave yet. Not for a lateral move, anyway. I have legitimate financial and logistical reasons for wanting to stay two more years rather than one. Honestly, though, there's something else at work. Since keeping in touch is not my strong suit, I'm afraid I'll sever what tenuous connections remain, and that I'll erase what's only faded.