I’m not sure what to say. A lot has happened, though at times it seems I’m in the same place I always was. Currently I am removing myself from an unhealthy relationship that was incredibly hard to let go of.
Have you ever loved someone so much you’d do anything to help them but they refuse to help themselves? What about when they inadvertently stifle/harm you? What did you do?
This unhealthy relationship was fostering an unhealthy relationship with myself. I had to leave. It’s terrifying and I struggle not to beat myself up over my choice.
Still, with time it’s getting easier. I am endeavoring now to live each day as if it is the only one I’ll ever get. No putting things off till tomorrow or the next day, or the next, etc. Now is the time, this is the moment.
I have no idea what life has in store for me. And I certainly don’t know what I should do about anything. But I do know I love telling stories. That’s what I want to do until the day I die.
I used to do this thing where I would write a story based of a visual. It was fun so I’m going to give it a shot here.
I just did a quick search (matter of seconds) using the first words that came to mind. This image immediately caught my eye.
In the summer of 1993 a letter came to Sarah Kane saying her Aunt Violet had passed away and left Sarah her home. Never having had much in the way of family, Sarah felt she was better off without the stress that inevitably came with such relationships. So though her Aunt Violet had invited her to visit many times throughout the years, Sarah had managed to find a way to decline every offer.
As Sarah opens the box of letters from her aunt, observing the handwriting becoming increasingly sloppy through the years, she sees a countdown to an end destined for us all. She wonders, will someone remember me when I’m gone?
Driven by guilt Sarah quickly plans her first visit to the home she should have visited so many times before. Doubt slithers into her mind as she wonders ‘What’s the point? It’s far too late to make amends isn’t it?’ Her eyes slide to the box of letters, faithfully written with failing limbs. Closing her eyes and gathering strength she says “No, it isn’t.”
Sarah packs her bags, books her trip and heads one down to a place that is the very image of wilderness. Arriving at a sagging shack, her guilt grows more intense. How did her aunt survive in this mess?
She’s almost too afraid to step inside, then reminds herself that this is where her poor aunt lived her life. She should be at least brave enough spend the night.
To Be Continued…