Bronze Chip

It's 180 days today.  6 months.  And I really don't know what to say about it now.  I know I haven't reached the point where I can stop tracking my progress, because I'm very aware of the fact I'm working hard to keep myself from sinking -- not even working to stay afloat, just... keep myself from sinking.  There is a difference.

I don't cry very often anymore.  I do have moments though where something goes wrong somewhere and it may not even have anything to do with him, but it lights this fuse of sadness, that leads to underlying rage and bitterness, and the next thing I know I'm burning like some sort of chemical fire that no one has the proper extinguisher for and so... I have to just let it ride until it burns itself out.

I have my moments where I start to feel like myself again, but on the whole, things are heavy and depressing.  My daughter has, at least in the past couple of days, lectured me about finding a good distraction.  The blog is a good distraction, but it only goes so far.  And I have started another writing project, but ... as she put it the other day, "I can see that it's difficult to focus on your writing when something heavy is blocking your imagination, Mom."

I have done my best to remove things that remind me... And then there's always that one idiot who, even six months later, says something stupid like, "Aren't you a newly wed?"  I've gotten really good at just keeping it simple -- "No.  No I'm not," shrug my shoulders and walk away.  The part they don't see is how terrible it feels inside because I know there is a world of thoughts in their own head as to what happened here and... yeah... guess we're all better off not truly knowing what the fuck went wrong.

And then I have moments like right now where, right after I wrote that paragraph, I bitterly shout, "The Fucktard!"

That's pretty much it.

My name is Pandora.  I have successfully completed 6 months of rejection recovery.  Anyone got a bronze chip to give me?

Bronze is pretty cool.