My apartment is cluttered with scraps of tulle and bits of thread. Up till 4 sewing. Puffy eyes, big headache. I wonder if this is what it's like to be hung over.
Adding to the bleariness of the day are the gray clouds and a horrible fight with the one person I trust most in the world [and the one who seems to do the most damage when he lashes out at me]. Sometimes I'm scared to death at the thought of being a parent, knowing the hurt we humans cause one another. We tear big holes, the kind I can't sew up with my needle and thread.
I once heard a speaker talk about "daddy wounds," those marks we still carry around in the land of earthly fathers...the imperfect ones...the ones that break things. Just another reminder that I'm still not home yet.
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