Hidden Pictures, Unmarked Exits

When left on my own to process, eventually I can come to terms with pretty much anything. I think this is the same skill that makes me a writer, the same skill that I'd be using if I were in politics. It's finding the story, creating the spin, bringing the facts together to make a pretty picture.

Unfortunately, reality sometimes intrudes.

Every time Paul and I hit a really low point, where I'm pretty sure we won't be able to make it, after a couple of days of reflection and waiting on my part, I look up and see the way out of the trough. It's a well-lit, obvious path, and I wonder that I didn't notice it earlier.

Then we try to talk again, and I realize that my pretty pictures, my ladders up out of the low places are fictions created in my mind, the mind that so desperately wants to believe that we can do this, we can fix this, we can continue on - if not as before, well, at least tolerably well. And he never understands what he's doing that's hurting me so.