The One That Got Away

So I’ve just spent all. Freaking. Day. Writing. Writing a series of more and more circuitous blog posts. It all started off with me deciding, this morning in bed before I got up, that it was time to stop my retreat into depression. Which I really had been working up to for a few days, so it was more an acknowledgment of something I’d already started than a decision. So I decided to write a bit about what got me down in the first place…

I started writing, and I wrote in circles. For hours. I wrote about my Mom’s fight against cancer, the state of my marriage, my oldest daughter’s emotional issues, and eventually even Buddhism. And it was cathartic, but when it came time to press “publish”, I didn’t. It just felt wrong. So I’d go back and delete a few sentences, a paragraph, a whole post. And start again. I’d come at it from a different angle, trying to tease out the truth and get it all wrapped up in a nice package with a bow on top.

So I wrote. And I wrote. And I wrote, wrote, wrote, wrote. And in the end, even though the post I was searching for wasn’t there, I realized that it was the writing itself that was helping, not whether I published it or not.

And now I’m here, in the end, not with a nice, neat story, but with a fish tale of sorts; a story about the beautiful, shiny big one. The one that got away.