I’ve been wanting to write about this. For a couple months now. Years, if I’m honest. I’ve been afraid I suppose. Felt as if it were too personal to share. Going a little too deep. Exposing a little too much. Even for me. But I’m a coward if I stay quiet. And most of all. Saying, “it’s acceptable,” if I do. Because the truth that is to come. The story I am about to share. It’s not acceptable. Not one bit.
Y’all. I’m struggling. Well. Not currently. It’s the first day of my winter break. But yesterday. Straight struggling. And I can blame it on a lot of things. Marge’s hand surgery last month. One that required 24-hour care that littlest sister and I shared. For over a week. Or post-Thanksgiving shopping which lasted a good three days. Or a work conference the week after. Which meant a two-day work week. Two weeks in a row. Must be nice, you say. Um, no. This is not a exactly a good thing in my new position at work. Not one bit. I could blame it on birthday parties. Christmas parties. Overspending. Wrapping presents. UPS’s inability to deliver a package on time. Or my lack of sleep lately. But I won’t. The sad truth. My struggle. What’s really eating me alive. The Christmas tree, y’all. I can’t. Just cannot. The tree is my issue. There are lights on it. And they are not white. They are multi-colored.