Seven days of not counting. Seven days of being busy, of being annoyed, of giving all that I can without filling up first. Seven days of that evil self-talk, that self-doubt and self-mutilation that destroys my perceptions and weakens all resolve. Seven days of just making do...of just getting by. Seven days and counting.
Because the truth is that I don't want to count. I don't want to write, to remember, to resolve. I don't want to...I'm tired. So tired.
The paradox is that the more that I try, that I count, that I resolve, that I find and I search, the less stressed, empty, hurt, bitter, annoyed, and even alone I feel. If I truly seek, if I truly knock, then I can truly find.
I'm still counting days, not gifts. I'm just not there yet. I want to want to count...I know it's best...but I've hit that wall, found that stumbling block. And I'm not certain that I am ready. Not yet.
Outside, the storms are raging. The tornadoes have destroyed the good and left the broken. And me? I'm still dealing with the inner storms, the whirling emotions and the devastating words that I'm tired of battling.