Foolish Pride

I would've thought, by 44, that I'd be more established and independent. I just had to ask my mother, who is retired, for a loan so that will be able to fly out and spend Spring Break with my sons. Not spending Spring Break with my boys is not even an option. I'll hock my tattered and bedraggled soul before I'll miss a school break with them.

But, O thou longsuffering; my droogs and only friends, if I could somehow convey to you how much it cuts me to the very core and leaves me anguished and bloody to admit to anyone that I am not able to manage things on my own; that I am not handling it myself. If I could express how my eyes fill with scalding hot tears that wet my cheeks at having to humble myself and ask for help from people whom I feel have already done more for me than should be expected.

I should (and do) consider myself blessed that I have these sorts of people in my life. I should (and do) count myself lucky that they never judge me or think of me as weak when I finally wrestle with my feelings, swallow my pride, and present myself as vulnerable to them.

I've said it before in this blog (in happier times), and will say again:

I am the luckiest motherfucker ever to step.

So many happier and more positive things I want to share, my non-existent readers, tales of joy and triumph; so many posts brewing in my head of a style more like the earlier days of this blog. Stop back by, I will make time to share.

Darth Sardonic