Once upon a time, I expected my husband and my marriage to meet my every need, fill every void, soothe every fear, supply all my joy… do you see where I’m going with this? I’ve filed this version of insanity away in my, ‘what the hell was I thinking?’ folder. It’s a fatty.
Yes they are. Both things are true.
For as long as I can remember, grey has been my favorite color. I don’t think it’s an aesthetic only preference. I have rarely been able to see the world and its complexities in black and white. My viewfinder is constantly set to shades of grey and at times that can be maddening. I’m a fence sitter, right on top, usually perfectly balanced and almost never teetering towards one side or the other. I’m the human equivalent of Switzerland in my stance on most issues. I can see it your way and my way, his way and her way too. And because of that, I’m often left feeling like I don’t know which way is up or which way is down. I’ve shied away from important decision-making and resisted contributing to policymaking, I love to assist but detest being in charge and I’ve never been politically active; all because I’m not sure which way the wind is blowing.
I have an incredibly hard time getting through self-help books or articles, no matter how great the content or how badly I need to absorb its particular wisdom and use it to try to ease on down, ease on down the road of life. Stories are what grab my attention and won’t let go. Stories are how I relate with the world and back to it. The only kind of self-help I can offer you is my special brand of don’t-try-this-at-home type anecdotes. My stories. Or, if you refuse to listen and do indeed try it at home, I can also then offer up how you might try to fix it.