That's not gone well.

I started this blog as a place to post my hopeless, sloppy loveletters but the hormones have subsided. Again I am one with the numbness that gets women over thirty through every day.

Before I came in and deleted my sloppy old posts I had a hundred things running through my head to say.

Now that the digital beast is staring me in the eyes, I've got nothing.

My family has erroded away to nothing but bad memories. My mother is dying. When she is gone my last connection to anyone or anything will be broken.

I am on th edge of the terrifying freedom of opportunity. I could go anywhere, do anything, and fail at it all.

Failure is the lid on the jar of possibilities. The worry that we won't know where our next meal, next bed, or next lay will come from.

Fear of failure has kept me nailed to a job I hate, a family that, at best, viewed me as a nusance, and a life style that fits like a Magnum condom on a twist tie.

All in the name of false security I've obliterated myself. Desperation, unsatiated hunger, and fear drive me from one mistake to the next all in the guise of keeping things "normal" and safe.

Last spring something, someone started bashing away at my wall of "normal". A voice, has been calling louder and softer through the haze. It's that voice that I'm trying to write about.

It's that dusty, hazy road I keep reaching down that I want to talk about. I want to say those words here, where they may be read by someone else and where I am safe in plain sight.