When you rub your eyes during a crying jag, they often get sore. Then the tears start to sting.

“Ya ever get that feeling that life doesn’t get any better and that you’re the luckiest person in the world? Yeah, me neither.”

Monday was the worst day of my life.

So far anyway.

Which probably means I lead a charmed existence, but it doesn’t seem that way right now.

Therefore, I must take a break from blogging.

Hold your applause until the end.

“Worst Day” status has nothing to do with sports fanatics in North Tampa (although, admittedly, the timing was bad that it all happened at once.) Please, if Focus on the Family in Colorado Springs couldn’t scare me away, no one can.

No, this hiatus (the first one, I believe, in over three and a half years of blogging) might last a few days or even a week. Or longer. But it’s necessary for me to regroup. I’ve experienced a loss so great, a blow so heavy, that I can’t write about it and I won’t talk about it.

This makes dealing difficult, since writing and talking are my favorite and most effective coping skills.

So what are my other options?

I don’t drink when I’m sad, only happy, so that’s out.

Not interested in exercising.

Curling up into a fetal position and crying for six hours straight worked at first, but since the tears still arrive when I least expect them, the jag didn’t really solve anything.

I spent a few hours cleaning the house. So that’s something. You could drink out of these toilet bowls, seriously.

Thinking seems to drain the life right out of me.

Sigh.

As we get older, we make difficult choices. These choices can hurt both ourselves and those around us. If we’re lucky, we experience no regrets, only lessons learned. But still, some choices leave us so bruised and battered, we never fully recover.

Therefore, recovery isn’t really my goal.

I’ve changed in the last few years, weeks…especially the last few days. As a result, I will never be back to 100% – not ever again. If you see a picture of me twenty years from now, in addition to wrinkles you could fall in, you will also see pain behind my eyes. A shadow of sadness will always be there.

Maybe it’s me, but I think I see the same familiar look now behind so many women’s eyes. I recognize it. A life truly lived means experiencing emotions, thoughts, and feelings that eventually show on your face. I often think about my Aunt Nora, and how she would nod and rock and tell me her stories.

Perhaps I’ve joined that club now, but don’t expect me to put on a purple hat.

If I’m lucky, I will get back 90-95% of me. That’s my hope. Returning to the land of the living and breathing and functioning will require time and soul-searching and meditation and maybe some prayer.

A kind of Shiva, if you will. To properly respect and mourn what has died.

Relax. I’m not flipping out.

I just need to take a break and heal. And I want to send out the few positive thoughts that are left to you, who’ve been hurt by my choices.

I love you, I love you, a thousand times, I love you. Always.

Take care.