Life is not perfect

...but there is beauty in the inperfection.

At least I try to think so.

I had received some bad news. I was already home from work because I wasn't feeling well, and I get a message that my grandpa is in the emergency room. He has been completely "out of it" for lack of a better phrase, for weeks, and yesterday he was doing really badly. The thousand fears that crowd the far-back, dusty reaches of my brain started to creep up and crowd all of my everyday thoughts. At a million miles an hour these monster thoughts hurtled at me: it's the chemo, but what if it's not? He'll go off of the chemo, and he'll be better, but when he does, it's over? What will my grandma do? What can I do to help? Nothing. You missed your chance. What will I do? Live with regret, it's your only choice.

I was shaken, by this, and by other thoughts, running out of the dark corners and into the light.

I cried yesterday, to my husband (yes, it still sounds weird), and said these words, and as I said them, I shook: "I don't do anything that is me anymore."
I hadn't meant for such a revelation to come forth, and yet, here it was.
"I don't write, I don't draw, I don't even read anymore" I said, my frustration coming through in violent spurts of tears.

"You have to make time for it, then" he said.
"Well that's easy to say," I retorted, stubborn in my sadness.
"What can I do to help?" he asked.

Just like that, my stubborness gave way. There is nothing he can do, because I have so much to do. It's completely my fault. I am in an artistic "no man's land" because I've been upset, overworked, and stressed out. But here I am, continuing to make job searching, writing, reading, or drawing a priority. I let the other things in. I do.

They say acceptance is the first step toward healing, so...
Now what?