My anxiety is through the roof. Heartbeat racing. Breathing staggered. I want to punch the bag for an hour. Won’t do any good. The reason for the turmoil is not something I ever prepared mentally for. Physically yes. But that would set the ball rolling toward bigger problems and anger management classes. I can manage my anger all by myself, or let it manage me. Both are conducive to my personality. I ask advice from people with knowledge and let their words penetrate my injured soul. A mere bandage but comfort, nonetheless. Peroxide with a sting of reality to keep my feet firmly planted in the fertile soil fed by blood and hope from a stormy sky we all see. Not easy. Easy is the nurturing in the womb. The pain from protecting the life inside. Hard is when they leave. A mother’s reach limited to the mind you raised. Love is setting them free, to think to love to be, until someone comes along and tries to cage that what you’ve created to be prosperous. To be strong and independent. Reverse religion. Where once women were property and now fight for independence, there are those who are born with independence but false love shoves them in a box with no holes. Not even to breath so they don’t see. Excuses fall into the line of truth. Once the bough breaks and the baby falls, I will be there to catch them when they fall…And to render the threat obsolete. I will stand by and watch until I won’t.
It is in my nature to protect. I did it wrong for so long, but now I, mostly, have it right. I won’t help those who lived through pain and decisions unless asked. Those who are just beginning…to know agony… to struggle with choices…I will be the better me.
Mel Evers wonders about it all 