Leap of Faith, or, Where has Amy been?

There are lots of things that have been completely paralyzing me lately. There are so many things in our life that I want to be okay. So many things, that I’m paralyzed and overwhelmed– unsure where to start. You might say I have struggled with an energy and momentum bankruptcy.

There’s our house. Thanks to the Iraq war, our painter left mid-job and had his brother finish it. While we’re certainly grateful that he wound up changing the green and yellow camouflage he started due to a miscommunication about the nature of gray and blue, it seems basic Aluminum Siding would have been smarter. That’s just the outside. The inside is in need of some fairly intensive decluttering.

Then there are the finances, standing in the way of any forward momentum. I don’t hate money. In fact, I’d love some. I don’t hate working in a regular work setting either. I’m an excellent therapist and enjoy getting to flex that part of my brain. I spent the weekend, a couple weeks back, with friends of mine from a pre-kids job and enjoyed that view of myself. The problem is twofold- most social work jobs simply don’t pay enough for childcare to make them worth it, and the jobs that appeal to me are the heavy-duty long hours jobs, that would not leave the resources I need to enjoy the simple things like family dinners.

Between the overwhelming nature of our house, finances and just the basics of raising two Boys, who are busy engaging in age-appropriate, yet sometimes challenging behavior, it’s been hard to move at all. Dinners have consisted of whatever I can throw together at the last minute, while urging the boys to spend fifteen minutes on their playset.

So there’s the paralysis blocking the forward motion on the house, finances and writing, but that can be overcome. In fact, since I started writing this particular post, I’ve taken at least three carloads of stuff to Goodwill, moved my office home to our guest room and participated in major home repairs. We hosted Archie’s third birthday party here at our home, with my dad, mom, step-mom, mother-in-law, step-father-in-law, Aunt Meg, William Gladness, and friends all in attendance, something I wouldn’t have thought possible two months ago. I have hopes of hosting a lovely Thanksgiving dinner, and preparing for the holidays in a way that isn’t completely manic. So there must be something bigger blocking the blog.

What is it? My blog hurt someone’s feelings. Unless I stoop to emoticons, people can’t hear the telling lilt in my voice or see the self-depreciating eye-roll. The walking-on-eggshells-I-really-don’t-want-to-hurt-anyone’s-feelings eyebrow raise is completely missed. I’m also sensitive- I pick up on undercurrents that I’d rather avoid, and I can read a big mountain out of a teensy poetic molehill. It’s a complex dilemma- the same skill that makes me an empathic therapist results in thinking too much, reading too much into simple interactions and hurting quite easily. Growing up, my dad always told me I was thin-skinned, and he’s right. That thin layer gets prickly faster than a tougher hide, but the vulnerability also allows me to make connections I would otherwise miss.

Anyway, since the hurt feelings were revealed to me, I’ve been terrified to post. Prior to that, I didn’t think anyone was reading, for heaven’s sake. Now, I’m unsure, and nervous. Can I be poignant, funny or authentic without damaging relationships? Can blogging honestly about my life be a victimless crime? I don’t know. I’m willing to think on it, write about it, push through the paralysis and see what happens –see if I can find a way to write from the heart without breaking any hearts.