I keep writing things, deleting them, writing again.

Nothing I say or write or do is going to explain, change or fix anything. Nothing.

I shuttle back and forth between anger and sadness, and the emptiness is always kind of hanging over it all. But, I mean, it's good to be home. It's good to force myself to stop hiding in distances, you know? I think, anyway. I think I do that too much.

(I think too much.)

But then, like I said, nothing—nothing—I say, do, think or feel changes any of it. I didn't do this, I didn't start it, I can't end it—I'm not really even directly involved in any of the action. I'm just one of the bystanders, wrapped up in everything and were it not my life that it was happening to, I might be able to turn away.

Earlier, I thought I might be able to stomach watching the ancient VHS tape labeled 'Christmas 1984', I thought maybe it would be cathartic. But the truth is I can't even really bear to watch little children who bear no resemblance to my family. I don't think I could deal with the way things once were. (The house he took her to, the family he chose to not choose.) It's just too much.

(Sometimes I'm terrified that if I ever really let thing sink in, if I ever stop worrying about my petty problems and assinine life and actually let things hit, I'll start crying and never stop. I'm not ready for that.)

Anyway. It's late. (Tired, cold and numb.) I don't have any moving accounts of all the brave things I hoped I'd do because I didn't do them. I only came home. Two weeks and I'm gone again, and for all my hopes, I fear things will be just as unraveled as I left them months ago.

I can't put my finger on quite how things came to be this way and I miss—ache for—so many things gone away. Merry Christmas.

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