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I don't reread this much. Each post is just a snapshot. But I do have an ironic ability (inability) to drop letters and words so that what I write is not quite what I intended. It's appalling how consistently I do this in the face of knowing this and attempting not to. Periodically I will go back to correct that. I suppose there is a silliness in this because I don't expect anyone to be reading this. As I said in my poem Confession, "I feel and I numb the scream — help me! uttered mutely and my assertion of a universe without ears."

I thought at the beginning that I would end explaining depression and confess to those I love. I am doing that. But also, in the end, I want my children to understand and to forgive me. I love them more then anything I can imagine. More than I express, I would love to be involved in their lives. I hope for it. I find small ways to have a taste of it. And yet, I know being involved is unlikely to ever come to be. I know I am toxic and no matter how much they love me, being with me, knowing me, it just too hard, too painful. I know raised them well because of who I am, despite how I am.

I feel blessed that Christie blogs and tweets. I was so thrilled to see Kian in my home this summer. Just to be with him for a few hours. I can see who they are and how they live. I know they are unbroken, not because life was perfect, or because I was perfect, but because I loved them for who they are and I delighted in seeing them flourish, and I fed their dreams and let them be free. I want my children to thrive having known me and having had me as their mother.

I love irony. Blogging, exposed to billions of people, apparently anonymous, but hardly so, it reinforces my beliefs. I want it to be different. What I want is a fairy tale, where I matter. I want people I love and those who love me to stay in my life. I wrote what it feels like to be loved and safe in Caught In A Swirl Of Thought.

I have a twisted idea about hope. I like how I wrote about it in My Fairy Tale.

I have no idea what is to live freely and be happy and to love life. I have ideals about this. I want the fantasy of what being innocent and childlike is all about, like I wrote in Grounds For Puddles. But I don't ever recall living like that. I remember childhood as being in my head, as always spending so much time alone. Yet, when I wasn't, I was trying to figure out how to be, to fit in. All I want is To Be Me. As I wrote it, what I want is just a fantasy to me. I have no idea of what living would be like just being me, being free. But I know I want it, I always have.