Writing, Where Are You?

I wrote a short story about the beginning of caring for my mom.  I looked for it today to reread and republish it here again.  However, like everything else in my life it has gone from me.  I thought I had kept a hard copy of it amongst my papers – it seems no is the answer.

I am heart-broken – again.

I want to scream and yell.  I want to cry myself sick.  I want to go on a bender (not really a bender just drink until I fall asleep).  There are only a few pieces I have written in my life.  The time, the energy, the creativity, the mind sweat, the vulnerability, the emotion of it all – GONE!  Like it never existed.  Like I never existed.  Like who I was before today – never happened.

For nearly five years I have lived in the same place, yet I have less than when I moved in.  I have less clothes, less possessions, less furnishings, less of everything.  It’s not about the things, but that’s what people do when they live somewhere – they make it a home.  They surround themselves with what they enjoy, what calms or excites them, or memories they’ve made.  But, even my memories are gone and missing too.  I have less memories than when I moved here.

Worse than a lack of things and possessions, I feel myself becoming dumber.  My mind is not expanding, becoming more knowledgable, or enlightened even.  My dyslexic mind which I’ve worked so hard all my life to learn things the way my mind works – to anticipate, to try to think faster than the next person just so I could keep up with the conversations and the world around me is simply gone.  As if I’ve been lobotomized.  As if both hemispheres are no longer communicating with each other.  Parts of my brain are gone entirely.

Who lives like this?  No one.  No one can live as if their life before today never happened.

I am just so devastated again.  My writing is not great, my grammar is not the best, I don’t follow or know all the writing/written formulas and so forth, but it was getting somewhere.  And, more than anything I did it for me.  I wrote because I decided to write.

This is what I found in my writing:

Just a note before I go.

It seems we don’t know how to end a day without arguing.  I know now why that is.  The time apart and separated from you cuts to the core of my soul with such an unhappy, unpleasant emptiness I find myself lashing out trying to be nearer to you.  For I do not truly exist when you are not by my side.  If today with grave cruelty came to be my last it is the heart of you I will hold onto for it can never be extinguished.  How grateful I am for every moment shared with you!  For the rest of the world is meaningless and pale while we are apart.

Til the end of time back again until the dawn of time.

I don’t even know who it was written for anymore.  I’m not sure I wrote it for anyone in particular.

I do know I held onto that belief of him, I believed was real.  Yet, these last few years have shown me it was not a shared belief.  Worse they were not real moments.

I would rather have died believing.