Twenty Years, Seven Months, and Twenty-Seven Days

Feels like that long since I wrote here.
I feel secretive, guarded, and exposed as I poise to write.
I have not written in the full length of time I have been gone from here. I occasionally fall mute, to the unconcealed surprise of those who know me. It isn't within my nature to be quiet, much less brief. But, twice in my life, I have been struck mute by the gravity of the reality in which I have found myself. And not for a moment, but for months. I spoke to someone the other night, and they said something to me that made me feel so much self-pity, I was suddenly very uncomfortable in my own skin.
I spoke of my situation, gave, perhaps, too many insights and details about my own life, and this young man said, with such wisdom, "You seem so happy and full of life, how do you bear all this sadness and keep it from owning your spirit?"
I very nearly burst into tears.
I felt my throat and cheeks go really tight. I tried to swallow and could not move any of the muscles involved in doing so. My face flushed and I felt my eyes sting with the arrival of acid tears.
I had to look out the window and I made a sound I thought I could pass off as laughter, then quickly drew it back before it erupted into the hysterics underneath it.
This boy of 24, another child with grey hair, just like I was at his age, is also possessed of an old, old soul.
I turned my focus to the rarity of his understandings and awareness of others, life, and what it really means, and how few people so young have any momentary notion of such things. Few people of any age have that kind of insight into others. It comes from a unique understanding of the self to be able to conceive of another's sadness, especially when it isn't even expressed by the owner.
The drive home in that Transit van, from Fallowfield back to Salford, was eternal. I didn't think we'd ever get home. I had to steer the conversation away from where I had so carelessly allowed it to drift. After that, I wouldn't go back over there. It's like someone's teenage son saw me naked. I don't see twenty-something's as anything but babies because my older sons are around that age now. He wouldn't believe me about the older boys. I had to show my passport to get him to believe I wasn't joking about being forty-something. He thought I was just giving him lines to let him down easy. No, I just don't get romantic with men younger than me. Never have.
It's not fair to them. And there's that whole thing about being married....I'm fairly hung-up on not wrecking my promises. I don't think he'd care or even notice, but that isn't the point. Sadly, some of it is good, old-fashioned, self-righteousness. Which I've become fairly adept at feeling with an amnesic leaning of about 90 degrees. From up-right, to prostrate in half an arch.
Anyway, the rest of it is that I'm so uptight now, I'm not likely to ever recline in anyone's grasp. Promise breaking or not.
It's strange to make departures and returns to places purely internal. But, this is one of those houses I've built in my head. The places where I dwell upon things, feelings, situations, people, whatever it is I've drug back with me from an overdose of social interfacing.
I crawl back into my tower and find a dark, quiet spot to sleep it all off. It reminds me of being ill. When I used to land in bed for nine days at a time. I have all these criteria about what a bed should be like because I am so known to taking to mine for indefinite periods of time. A big fluffy, but supportive mattress, some memory foam, high-quality down feathers in doubled high thread count Egyptian cotton. About 55 degrees fahrenheit.
Sleep restores sanity. I spent the last six months or so throttling around, staying up for two days at a stretch and frequently falling asleep standing up. (I was working ridiculous hours, but, I got a serious LOAD of things accomplished!)
I had to stop all that. I'm not immortal or invincible anymore. There were a few days where I would be climbing the stairs, thoroughly exhausted, and I would actually wonder what could be wrong with me. UHH, YOU HAVEN'T SLEPT OR EATEN IN 36 HOURS....YOU NEED A SNACK AND A NAP, YOU STUPID COW!!
So, I accomplished what I was so hellbent and motivated to do, now it's all down to casual maintenance. I had days of such frustration and rage, my chest would have sharp shooting pains and my blood pressure would sky rocket. So, all those little ailments that used to come to the surface when I was ill when I was younger, they seem to merely have receded and be waiting in the wings for further breakdown in my body. I am able to stave off so much by sleeping. But, I marathon sleep. I have heard that too much sleep isn't great for you. Too much of anything....
But, I still sleep like a drugged up teenager. I expect to get 12 hours a night.
What the last six months has taught me is what kind of a husband I actually have. He is, ohhh boy, pissing me off right this second. I'll have to get back to you on extolling the virtues of What's-His-Face.
My train of thought has chugged off in the distance and left me here with my rambling blog post...
And His Lordship aggravating me.

Post Script: I meandered off and was reading on the main page of the site, and I see Mexrrissey...
I Google, snag Youtube, and find International Playgirl at the top, I click, and, HAVE YOU HEARD THIS YET?!?!?!?
It's f***ing BRILLIANT!!
I'm in love with this!!
Mexico loves Moz so much, I've been up in the middle of that, and it's frenetic and passionate and, Oh...it's amazing! It makes you want to be Mexican so you can love him a little more than your white, anglo-saxon, once-upon-a-time-protestant-arse allows!!
If you haven't heard it yet,here it is.
I'm a bit slow on the uptake sometimes, I used to catch it all before it came out, but apparently, those days are done!! hahah!
Anyway, it's lovely!!

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My Only Weakness
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