I hate being squeezed. Hugs are one thing, squeezes another. Emotions squeeze so tight; they don't stop even when there's nothing left to squeeze out. It's a break at the press, then back to it again.
Ever since April, when I went to the Storymakers Conference, I felt different. Something changed for me, that weekend. James and I both had an experience during one of the conference workshops that I won't share because it's one of those things that are better left to marinate in the sauce of privacy, but it was one of those life-changing things, something you know you'll never forget.
I've struggled since then, with life here as I know it. There are people I care about and love, but I desperately want a new space to grow. I'm a hermit crab who is being squeezed into hermit juice, shell cracking yet holding strong, and there's no new shell as far as the eye can see.
I need to get out.
My sister is moving; the one who lives three minutes from me. She'll be moving two hours away. Not far, and not across the country, but still--underneath, I kind of believed that if you don't take something for granted and are thankful for it every day, that it would stay the same.
Yeah, I didn't really believe that, but something deep within me hoped. Our daughters adore each other. Karen is the only thing that has anchored my tether to our city, the only thing pulling at keeping me here.
Now, I'm adrift.
Pulled and tossed by the waves, each one washes over my head, pretending to be kind by washing off the salt from my eyes, but leaving more deposits. Soon, I will weigh too much and drown.
I find myself crying during the week far too often.
Some may say, "You sound depressed." You'd better believe it. I'm tired of pretending I'm not. I'm fighting against it every day, the squeezing, seagulls pecking at my shell, snatching bits of me because I'm bursting at the seams.
I need a new shell.