I read today’s Debut entry and felt pangs of sympathetic pain. Her life is not my life, but we have certainly had similar experiences. This part was the hardest to read:

“I tried to keep the worst stuff out of the journal because airing my marital dirty laundry didn’t then and doesn’t now seem like a reasonable thing to do in an online journal. It just means that the journal archives are a positive public spin on the private me who I now see was privately putting a positive spin on my entire life. No wonder I talked about the garden so much.”
O, I know, Jill. I know. I had no garden, so for me, it was: “No wonder I worked on my website so much.”

The hardest thing to feel while I was reading this entry is the love in my heart that is still there, the good times and the great memories — all still there. In Jill’s life, they have been (perhaps only temporarily) blown to bits. In mine, they are all still intact, and I don’t want to tear them down. Although intact memories hurt so much more than ripped apart ones, I have to keep them that way because otherwise, what did I fight for? And what did I ultimately give up?

I believe that putting a positive spin on disintegration is a somewhat valiant act, even if it is misguided, and ultimately futile. Maintaining hope that things will improve is what I have to do to stay alive. There is such a fine line between looking for patches of sunshine and blinding myself with the sun.

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I acknowledge that I live and work on stolen Cowlitz, Clackamas, Atfalati, and Kalapuya land.
I give respect and reverence to those who came before me.