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I am sad and my bed is empty and no one is near. No one speaks. My dwelling is quiet except for the dryer tumbling wet towels and the erratic off and on spurts of my thought as I type the bullshit out.

I have all this love to burn and sometimes it feels like there's not a soul to feel it's warmth. The weight of it compiles and the want grows bigger, and becomes a burden needing to be burned. So here I am lighting fire to it, as best I can.

I want someone to love me, to fucking save me and make me whole through compassion in every sense. I realized by the words of another that this is an impossibility. No one can save anyone. No one can restore another. That only person who can make me whole is myself, even if someone comes along claiming to be my personal savior.

I do want someone to make the answers seem simple, even if the answers are anything but. I want arms around me. I want someone to drive into me and thrust my sadness, loneliness and pain away and MEAN it with every muscle in their body. And afterwards, look at me and through through the eyes, convey what was just done - a healing. Then, arms. Arms that don't let go.

Maybe there can be temporary bliss and restoration but a dreamy completion from another can't be. No one can save anyone. I can only be there for the one's I love and hope another at the right time, or the other who is right, will open up, or come along and at least stand behind me and beside me for the darker days, for the healing, the happy moments that do come, and for the pleasure exchange of caressing the soul's wounds.

I wonder why more people don't seize every opportunity they have to love one another, especially those deserving and wealthy to give, especially those who are so sore, aching and in need of a reckoning and a trusting release. I wonder why some dwell on the pain and misery of others and what they can't have, or what is empty and lost and not worth saving. Anyone can love another and one should, even if some are not worthy, but there comes a time for weaning one's self from the lesser worthy and spreading hope, healing and faith to those who need it most. That is my philosophy.

What I wish to say is I wish one would say, "Yes, I will save you." That's not going to happen. Yet I wish it would. So I will burn what I want and can't have with hard words. Perhaps a new, soft growth will one day rekindle. In the meantime, I can shelter those I love with what is left of my heart and soul.

All my life I've been a rock for others. Like rocks, when water seeps into their cracks, some eventually break apart inside where they are most vulnerable or erode from constant bombardment of the elements, if the vulnerability is near the surface. People have seeped into my weak places and broken me apart slowly over time and people have worn me down when I've worn my weakest burdens near my surface.

Sometimes I feel like a lowly, gray and morose rock, tired of holding myself together for others, tired of being. Yet, I gladly let those I love into my soft, safe places and eventually, no matter what they always become a part of me. This I do not regret, even if they break me. Yet sometimes the strain is difficult. I want to hold up, for myself and for those I love. This is a worrisome thought.

Then I begin to wish I could be a liquid and flow into somewhere warm and safe, into a solid crevice, winding its way to become part of a permanent deep lake, untouchable and bottomless. But that is a dark thought and I can't be this way, or lean on another in such a manner. I can't expect it from another. Liquid and running and dark is not who I am.

I've been strong for my parents. My mother, my father. I've done it for friends. I've been a shattered rock for my first love which nearly broke me to pieces and possibly has, though I hold together like a mosaic, trying to at least be a pretty rock on the outside. And so, I've done it for lovers. And I go on this way. And I may always go on this way. But I want someone to hold me together, or piece me together if I break. I want another rock to crash down beside me and wedge me somewhere firm, so I feel safe.

To close off all my cracks and openings? Impossible and selfish. To either crumble into ashes and let everyone take a part of me? At least I would have given. To harden into something impenetrable? I suppose only a diamond can be so lucky, so perfect. And I certainly am far too flawed to be such a thing. I too wear myself. Aren't we all ticking time bombs?  Lava cools and forms and the rock is predetermined. So are we at birth, by those who shape us and how we are raised. I can't help but think, of how much the struggle is set? How much is choice?

Hey, Vox. My little rant down there? I need a vacation. Badly. And I do believe you've got one for me, yes? I'm ready to go to Paris, to Tokyo like you promised. And I'm ready to SHARE it with everyone here and take everyone with me along the way. So, let's go.

It's been a while. I haven't written in long. I've allowed myself to become closed off, I'm afraid. The past weeks since I last wrote, the weeks of January, February, and most of March have been days of trial. I've had devastation and some real big problems. Yet, I still find the courage to smile, to laugh and to love as best I can, because I've had hope.

Mostly.

I'm always worried what others are going to think. I hate that I barely write. It used to be my essence. I was personal. I shared myself with others. It has been what I do. I have began to understand I am a personal being. My writing is personal. It is the very definition of me. I used to think this was bad, that I was too open. But, so what? 

In being this way I have come to learn that people pass judgments. Friends come and go, as do relationships. Even family members. Sometimes, through my writing, others are inspired. Or forgiving. Or patient, as I unfold myself. Unfortunately, some have been cold. It is these salty sorts which I have allowed to effect me. instead of listening to myself and my gut.

Rarely now do I pick up a phone or sit down to an email and write to a dear friend for advice, asking "what now old pal?" Or, "can you help me?" It has become a resolute fact, this disappointment. And so I have tried to work myself out on my own, seeking the comfort, compassion and empathy of no one, except for a man I sometimes cry to when the burden is unbearable.

I feel glad I can confide in someone, that he is out there and even if I were to write down my entire life's story for everyone on the internet, I would rather tell him my most happiest of joys and darkest of sorrows if I knew I could pour all of it into his lap and feel certain he was strong enough to have it. But now the pressure is built up inside of me and I can't take it anymore and I wish to put it all down for what it is, damn the consequences, damn the backlash. I want to release it and speak of how I feel and let it flow out of me as it comes, whether it be ugly. Whether it be smeared. Whether it be shades of blue, red, black, white. I just want to be me again and do as I do.

I do not care if the things I express are not colored as others picture the painting on the wall that is me. Yes, I chose to put myself on display. But it is what I do. I am not always vibrant. I do not always appear in clarity. My colors may run. I am what I am. I do my very best to be as good as I can be. Yes, my actions, my choices may not always be the best but can I at least share them for myself? Can I at least be allowed to be imperfect, humble, to run my colors, to bleed out?

I have cared too much about what others think of me. I got so melancholy at losing people's faith, friendship or whatever it is they previously had to "give" only to take away, based on their moral high ground. This is my life. It is what it is. Judge me, hate me, encourage me. I don't care much, yet I care enough to show I am at least trying! It, this thing called life, redemption, lessons learned, it matters to me, that I prove to myself. I haven't gathered the proper tools to complete what it is I truly want to be, and to redeem.  I want to be good, to grow and be better. I want to follow my dreams and my heart. I don't want to be a woman lacking  ideas and sound character.

It's only been barely a year since I took my life and went in another direction and confessed how I truly felt. I've made some terrible, hard and bitter choices. Yet, I feel I've defied many. I've made successes in the midst of hard decisions and mistakes. Along the way I've grown, a lot in fact. At least while I've internalized so much burden I've allowed myself room for expansion to hold it all less I erupt in a fit of rage, hopelessness, or desperation.

I guess when if I finally do erupt, I would like to imagine it instead of a giant, grenade-like, volcanic dysfunctional mental splatter, but rather instead as redirecting it all right out of my ass, onto the very people who thought they were so much better, clever and more human than me.

Last night I had a dream that a man came to me in my sleep. He did not have me sexually. He simply put his hand on my forehead, stroked my hair and kissed my cheek. I went to sleep last night with ache in both of my legs. When it is cold outside my legs hurt. In my dream, he eased my pain. He put his hands to my legs and gently rubbed them, pulling out the knots in the muscles and relaxing me. I remember him holding me while I cried. It was mercy. But, when I woke up this morning my leg ache was still there, no one was near me and I truly felt alone.

I feel abandoned by everyone who should be there for me. Some of my dearest friends have made their decisions, their judgments and to them, I'm not worthy of their comfort, empathy or compassion. One could say they aren't truly a friend, but to me they are dear to me. I forgive all too easily. I love with all my heart, even if it rips my heart apart. I need their compassion.
 
I truly long for human contact. It is cold outside and to save money on heating costs, I keep the thermostat on low. I can only cover up in so many blankets before I am wishing for the warmth of another.  I hate the hours where I am here, in my empty apartment. I become excited at the thought of going to work. When I am here, as I am now, in my apartment, I try to find things to do. I cook and I clean. Sometimes I read. But, I do not enjoy it or find the meaning I once found in it. I've lost interest in things I love. I used to draw. I used to paint.

I've become depressed to a point I never thought I would return to. I was here, once, long ago, when I was a child. I was a girl and my parents fought quite a lot. Before the realization, I remember being very small, too young to know of their troubles, and running through corn stalks, thinking how good it was to be alive. Then, slowly over time I became aware of my parents problems. I remember at about the age of 10 coming to a point of despair in which I wanted to fall asleep and never wake up. I couldn't feel safe. I feel as if I've returned to this feeling.

I want someone to come sit with me. I want someone to hold me. I want someone to look into my eyes and tell me everything is going to be okay. I feel isolation and despair eating me alive. I fear that I no longer have enough vigor left in me to fight. I used to have strength. I used to take a stand for things I didn't feel were right. I would pick myself up and keep on going. I had a plan. Now I see my plans and my hopes and I can't seem to focus on the details, the steps they require. I feel paralyzed. I wish someone would come free me from the prison I am in, trapped inside my own hopelessness. I swear, a simple and consistent it's going to be alright, you can do this, would give me just enough courage and strength to keep going. I need true empathy.

It would be easier if the people telling and talking words would realize it's their actions, their deeds that mean the most, that motivate me and inspire me, keep me pushing through. The words come so easy to say, and to them these words are the solution. I hear the words all around. But for me, high up on a ladder I've started to climb, if I don't see my dearest standing below me, ready to catch me should I fall, I feel nothing but distraught.

I have an apartment of my own now. I will soon have a better job and a car. I'll bring my son home. But right now, at this moment, I feel lost. I'm trying so hard to focus on me. Me. My life. Everyone keeps telling ME that. "Focus on you, Kristen," they all tell me. That's easier said than done. I barely know how. I'm so used to caring for another, nurturing a love, and a family.

I hate to feel this helpless and hopeless. I feel so pathetic. But, I can't help it. It's how I feel. I hate it. It surely will pass though. Somehow I'll adjust. And, maybe by putting this down in writing and posting it, bearing all that makes me feel weak and ashamed, others who might be in my shoes will know they, too, are not alone.

Matthew sent me an audio text to my cell phone last night. I was woken up to the sound of my phone going off when the text came in. I check my phone 24/7, in cast anything ever went wrong with William or in case someone needed me. So, I picked up my phone, opened the text and listened to the recording. In it William was crying. He was asking, "where Momma? where Momma?"

My heart broke. Now he is beginning to feel the pain of this. I beat myself up constantly as it is. I know his confusion and pain will only grow. I try to tell myself that Matthew and I will make his life as easy as we can but in reality, his life will be full of never-ending change and stability will be difficult to maintain.

I asked Matthew not to send me messages like that. I can't bear it. I was almost angry at him for sending it to me in the first place. But, if my son is hurting I would like to know so I can be there for him as best I can.

However, what can I do from here? I'm 1,000 miles away and financially held back. I will just have to keep going and live with this and fight it! I must.

It's hard though. I have little to no help, therefore I need a car so I can take William to day-care, so I can work and not have to ask my small circle of friends (which are a couple of ladies my age who already have full time jobs) to babysit. I can't bring William to me until I have a car and I can't get a car until I have more money. I'm in a vicious and I need help!

I get so tired. I am succumbing to a deep depression, yet fighting it as best I can. I am trying so hard to stay focused on my goals, no matter how hard they may be, but my obstacles are looming huge in front of me. I walk several blocks to work regardless if it is raining or snowing or freezing cold, so I can save up for a car, so I can bring my son home. I feel disillusion and dismay. Some days my depression is so intense I feel actual physical pain in my body, a pain I can't describe, a pain I wish would stop.

I'd give anything for that pain to cease. I'd give anything to hold my son again.

The word that comes to mind is, anguish.

I haven't been writing much. I know I've wanted to but the ability to open up and express myself hasn't been there. It's just not in me. It's as if that part of me has died. I used to write only about the beautiful aspects of my life. I loved being a wife, a mother, being domestic. I never shared the hardships. I kept my marital problems secret and private. I wanted that perfect life. I lived in denial.

Now my life has consisted of trying to start over again after deciding to leave my husband of over 6 married years. I haven't wanted to write about that. It's too painful. I write some on myspace, here and there when my mind boils over with thought, or I have something happy to write about.

I've been very troubled in the past months but, I've been finding peace again. I've been working through my feelings day by day. That's a good thing. Now I feel like writing a little bit more and the emails sitting in my inbox are calling for response.

I've received some caring emails from friends here. I haven't responded and I'm sorry. The kind words have meant a lot and I cherish them. I just have so much on my plate. I haven't been able to deal with much anything other than get up, go to work, look for better work, find a place, get a car.

I've been in 3 relationships since I split with Matthew. The first one ended badly and was a mistake. The second one was great, for a while. Then it just didn't work out. The third one has been going very well and I like him a lot, but I'm taking things slow. I feel no pressure from him and he's made a positive impact on my life and he's been good to me.

I don't know what the future holds for me when it comes to love. I only know I plan to better my life first and foremost. The most important thing to me right now is that I become more self-reliant. I've had to ask for rides to and from work because I'm without a car. I've had to ask my grandma for money. My best friend let me live with her for several months. My parents have bought me groceries. While it's good to be looked after and helped, it frustrates me and burns my pride. Most of all, I worry. I worry for my son. What kind of a mother am I if I cant provide?

So, I sent him to his father in California. William has been gone for over a month, going on two months. He will stay there until I can bring him back without complications. I put more hours in at work. I saved up a little money and was able to move into my own place. I've had so many complications in between and that fact is eating my spirit alive. I have problems with my parents, my best friend and finances. But, I keep going.

My next goal is a car but before that can happen I need a better job. I can work the hours at my current job, Starbucks, but the fact of the matter is - that won't pay the bills forever and that won't give me room to save like I want to. And that's not the  place for a woman like me. I have too much potential to waste burning my finger tips on shot glasses full of hot espresso.

It takes time to get back on one's feet. Some days I miss Matthew, the man I fell in love with. Sometimes we fight, other times we get along. Aside from a few things and differences we cannot reconcile on, mostly we get along and usually he's very kind and understanding. He wants me to come back but that's not what I want or feel would be best. I look back on our problems and it overwhelms me. But, I want to be a wife. It's all I ever wanted. I want a man to love and look after, to have a hot meal on the table ready when he comes home from a hard day's work, to have loving arms for at night, to stand by, respect, honor and defend.

All this being said, I'm hopeful. I don't have all the answers. I just know I must keep on going, improving, confronting my feelings, myself, my faults and growing, not just for my sake, but most of all for my son's sake.

Sometimes I don't understand why.

When did I stop caring? Why did I want my freedom? Why did I feel so unloved? How did it come to this?

I suppose that I'll never stop asking myself why. I would like to think I'll move on, maybe even find happiness with another. I would like to think a man will come along one day who understands I am someone who needs to be reassured constantly, who shares my dreams, who believes in true love as I do.

I am in the processes of breaking down each why and getting my head on straight. It isn't easy. Some days I don't even know what I want or who I am. Sometimes I want to go back to my husband and reunite the family we had. Other days all I want to do is flee far, far away.

I don't feel a constant peace. I wish I could because there have been times in my life when I have felt prolonged peace. I suppose that not one person has ever been consistantly at peace or content. Life is made up of ups and downs. Happiness can often come in small forms. I try and remind myself of these facts. I try and remind myself that things will get better and I have a chance at happiness again.

But the biggest why I ask myself every day...

Why do I feel so unworthy?

To all of you who have been reaching out, whether you understand all that I'm going through or not, I thank you. From the bottom of my heart, with my deepest appreciation and gratitude, I thank you.

The kind words I am finding here on my blog, emails of concern, even advice and experiences shared in divorce, pain and loss, it all means so much to me.

I want to admit something.

I think it was I who gave up long before he did. I think it was me who stopped loving as I should. I know that I was leaving him a long time ago. I think that over the course of time, he, too, was leaving me, but hadn't gone as far as I did. I think he would have held on until his death. I guess I am not so loyal.

I thought I might have contradicted myself yesterday when I wrote about the love in his voice, when I hear it. How could I say he still loves me when I also said we stopped loving one another? Yet, in my defense, I think it's fair to say that I didn't feel loved, understood or appreciated like I needed.

However, I blind-sighted him. He didn't know I was gone until I left. But he should have known. Can't we see the rain coming in distant storm clouds? Is it so much to ask from a husband that he pay attention?

I will not cast the blame because I am just as responsible. I did the leaving. I just wish some days that he would have tried harder to give a damn