I have an external stress meter which no matter what I do I cannot hide it.

Well I can.

With socks.

Except it’s way too fucking hot to wear socks, even if I do like my knee high stripeys.

I have psoriasis. On one foot. I’ve mentioned it before on here and I don’t have any qualms in having bare feet because it generally isn’t bad. But it’s enough to make me self conscious when it flares up. Lately it’s been ridiculous. Which irritates me as I thought I wasn’t that stressed. Obviously I am because my body never lies.

When I internalize it externalizes. And I bury myself in work so I don’t have to think. I’ve been internalizing over so many things lately because I didn’t want to write it all down.

I still don’t.

But then I remembered way back when I started writing. I’m glad someone had the balls to make me write. I’m eternally grateful because they found an outlet I hadn’t realised was there. So I confront myself. I write. But I start and then I stop.

I’m tired of struggling. I’m tired of being the strong person all the time. It takes it toll and whittles away at my soul. I miss having that one person I can completely and utterly confide in. I miss human touch, that skin on skin connection.  I miss that soaring sensation of the heart. I was feeling sorry for myself and going deeper into an abysmal abyss of sad. Watching my child hurting and feeling helpless has been the hardest part. Trying to parent again with the ex has been a hellish journey over the last few months.

And then i got the grumps, the black mood that I can’t explain it just is. I call her my wolf. She is lethal. She has teeth. She bites.

I went hermity. Walls went up.

Silence.

Those walls? Well and truly up and I’m way behind them in my little dark place.

Right now? The wolf is pacing. Growling.

I kinda like it here and I’m not coming out for a while.  If I poke around hard enough I’ll find my muse dwelling in some dark cavernous hole waiting to suck me into his web of words and ink  and off I’ll fly for a while, if only to feed my soul a little.

This kind of hurt is not the good one. I don’t like it.

I need a muse.

I need to feed my soul.