One thing I've noticed about the process of getting back to normal is how difficult it is to focus on any one task completely.
Every time I start a project, my brain wanders off in E's direction. I worry. About E getting bumped in the hallway by one of her towering classmates. About E losing her balance while navigating the classroom. About E being too tired to tell her aide that something hurts.
It's an odd place to find myself--wanting to reclaim a sense of normal, needing to reclaim it. And yet, not being able to.
In a Twilight Zone-y kind of way, it's almost as if a dark part of me--the part that's read too many thriller novels and watched too many scary movies--is waiting for the director to cue the off-key background music.
While trying to find the Pooh moment in all of this, I've realized something. It's an aha sort of moment. One I believe will finally allow me the focus I need to write E's story.
I'll have many points of view to choose from. Each with a unique controlling belief. Take mine, for example. Last summer, I finally let myself believe E was on a good road, and that our family could enjoy the ride.
Unfortunately, my controlling belief was challenged in August after we learned about E's new aneurysm. Events over the last six months collided with my core belief, moving my story forward, bringing me to this place.
This place. It's unproductive, isolated, and, in the end, very personal. But as uncomfortable as it is, this nexus is also a place of beginnings.
I must sit here. I must sit and endure it, and, hopefully, be Pooh about what happens next. I must hope that when my controlling belief finally arises, tempered by the events of the last six months, it will be changed for the better.
And stronger because of E's story.