On this day, three years ago, I posted the first blog post I had written since coming home from prison:
Three years ago.
I can’t believe it’s been so long.
These last few days, I have been struggling with what it means to be the nouns that I am now. Free. Home. Single. Thirty-three.
It’s hard to feel free when you still have nightmares. Hard to feel at home when you barely live, anywhere. Hard to feel single when you still talk to your late husband. Hard to feel thirty-three years old when you’ve lived at least sixty years of life already.
Next month, I turn thirty four.
There’s a milestone every week if I’m in want of something to stumble over.
I worry that I stumble too much. I worry that I will forget all the words I am that have nothing to do with the worst parts of my last few years. I worry that I don’t deserve a place of peace and love.
I worry, in general, and I stumble, often, but that hasn’t stopped these last few years from being home to some serious healing.
Sometimes I forget because healing is often invisible.
But music is invisible, and we hear that. And love is invisible, and we feel that.
And Wonder Woman’s jet is invisible, and…
Never mind, we’re trying to move past that one.
The point is, invisible things are only invisible to the eye.
The point is…
I am not invisible.
The point is…
when I stop trying to measure things, I can see how wonderful the last three years have been.
I have been so very loved.
You are not invisible to me, not ever.
Your love is not invisible to me. Not ever.
And, on this day, that’s the part I want to remember.
Thank you for your part in my journey.