Tears For A Stranger

I am an admitted fan of Heather Armstrong, and have been for years now. Years? How did that happen? But it did, because in her writing I found an online kindred soul, someone around my age, someone who has a similar background, and someone substantially stronger than I.

You guys know how careful I am on the internet. If you read dooce, you know how careful she is not. I consider that very, very brave.

I've read her site with dedication for years, bought and devoured her books, told my friends about her site, and copied her writing style more than I like to admit. I pretend it's inspiration, and it is, but there are times I've directly taken from her. I'm not proud of that, but it's done, and unerasable on the internet.

I know of which she speaks when she talks about the depression, the overpowering Why? of everything, the desire to just call it a day. It's not a selfish act in that moment, it's not meant to hurt others, it's meant to save myself. But as she's pulled herself out, I've pulled myself out, at different times and in different manners.

I've envied her life, her sense of humor, her ability to create an empire of sorts, one that can financially protect her family. When I read of the stress it causes her to be the sole breadwinner, I understood that pressure. I know what it feels like to see that infinite crack and KNOW in that minute that everything will, in fact, fall apart, and that moment is seconds, minutes, twenty-four hours from now.

So when I read her post today, it made me cry. I know that I, a stranger, can do nothing to help her through her life right now. But the tears come anyway, as they seem to do so easily now, and all I want to do is hug GPOM and hope like hell for a future that cannot be predicted or controlled or some days, even managed.

Yes, yes, it all works out in the end. But all those letters, thoughts, words, fears, panics, smiles, uncontrolled giggles, and hugs that form the underlying 'it' take forever.