I know I don't post as much on here as I likely should, what with how much I read. I have read dozens of books since my last post, but I get caught up in being mommy or fall deeper into my depression and cannot make myself write no matter how much I want to. This is why books themselves are so much magic. No matter how depressed I am, I can pick up my kindle and find a book that will transport me to a magical place where it does not matter. A world where I don't hurt. A world where I do not exist as I am, which is exactky what I need. I can cease to exist, without erasing myself from existance.
I often try to put myself in the shoes, if you will, of the characters in the books I am reading. Maybe that is why it is so hard for me to consider my own existance at that time. This has gotten me go wonder, what were these authors going through when they wrote this book, or that character, or even that simple yet powerful scene. I have started to wonder what they might think if they were to learn that the beautiful words that have poured forth from their very soul just might be the only thing keeping my heart beating on my worst days.
These are very hard things for me to admit. Not everyone knows how hard it can be. How most days the smile on your face is a lie. Every laugh is forced. Getting out of bed is painful. Looking ino the eyes of my children is torture because they can't know. I cannot ever let them see how much it hurts. It is not their fault. They are peffect. I am the one with the broken brain. I get up every morning for them. The books help me get through the worst days, and show my children how special the written word really is. They help to lessen my own pain and help me rage, laugh, cry, feel. My children can see me with real emotion, and it carries out into the real world so I csn have an honest smile or laugh with them, those that deserve and truly need it most.
If I could keep that going for more than just a day...maybe I could get these stories of my own out of my head. It saddens me that they seem just to be locked inside. It is not the author that writes the book though, but the book using the author as a catalyst to bring it into existance. Maybe mine just are not ready yet. They in there though. I dream them. They play like movies in my head. If I could just beat down the depression for a little while. I know that every post in my blogs is a step forward, but every post I don't make is a step back. It is so hard. It is so hard to know that is my own broken brain holding me back.
But that is the beauty of books. They mend the broken pieces, even if just for a little while. They bring a special beauty into an otherwise dark and empty feeling life. I know what you are thinking. How dare I feel my life is empty when I have kids, right? What kind of mother feels that way? One that knows she could give them so much more, if only she were not always in so much invisible pain. My kids are the reason I get up every morning and look for as many was as I can find to fight through every painful day. They are the reason I fight back every tear thzt comes from nowhere, and why I try so hard to look for any beauty I can find. They are also the reason I started blogging. To share the beauty, the pain, the anxiety. To maybe find someone like me, someone that needs to hear what I am saying. Someone I can helpmthe way my books help me.