SHOUT

Two years ago today, my blog was born. Ironically, it was Mother's Day.

Two years is a dreadfully long time to keep an online journal, especially with what I spill here for the world to see. I have a love/hate relationship with this blog. It takes up my time and requires me to experience everything twice in order to put my feelings into words, which is less than pleasant sometimes. My friends and family members come here to read my thoughts, and that can be awkward at times; but, for the most part, they have let me do my thing without judgment. There are people I know who don't come here anymore because what I write makes them uncomfortable. Although I can see why they feel this way, I'm saddened by the fact that they prefer to know me superficially and remain ignorant of what my life is really like. Especially now that I have more good days than bad and there is a lot of joy to share here. I envy their choice to remain comfortable, as that's not an option for me anymore.

As you know, I was thinking of hanging it up on my blogoversary. Wrapping this up in pretty paper and putting it all away. For a time, I felt like I was writing the same stuff over and over, anyway.

Do you believe in signs?

I do.

I was sitting at the stoplight at an intersection in our neighborhood one day listening to music in my Jeep. I was alone and wasn't thinking about much of anything. What happened next is almost impossible to explain. I felt a voice somehow speaking to me. Actually, it seemed to completely surround me. It spoke just one word, and I could see somehow that the word consisted of all capital letters. My eyes widened behind my sunglasses, and I wondered if I had dozed off in the warm sun streaming through my window for a millisecond. Why I would hear this word in the car by myself thinking of nothing in particular is beyond me, but this occurred around a time I felt really discouraged about my writing. There it was in front of me. In all capital letters.

SHOUT

The traffic light turned green, and the voice instantly evaporated. I pressed my foot gently against the gas pedal, feeling as if I had seen a ghost. Maybe I had.

Two years out from that horribly emotional Mother's Day on which I fought constant panic attacks and lived one minute at a time with a wounded heart just one month after our diagnosis, I continue to write. I continue to look back and see my progress clearly documented. I continue to share Erik's story and the fact that although this journey is not close to easy or pretty, it is still possible. I continue to see that although life will never get easier, it will continue to evolve and change. The world didn't end the day we were diagnosed, and I will continue to expose myself this way a little longer. I will continue outside the boundaries of my own comfort zone.

I will continue to SHOUT.