I thought I would post yet another picture of the current love of my life, Dball, the way he rolls over as the sun comes up, tummy offered for me to rub my fingers on.

But. For whatever reason, blogger pulled up this instead of a blank page. About which I have been thinking a lot again lately. Talking in my head. Writing in my head. To whom? My youngest daughter mostly, the child who took the most amount of damage from the upbringing I gave them. I tried so hard to shield them from the awfulness of life, but I couldn't shield them from having been born to me. I couldn't shield anybody, including myself, from me. Now I don't "do me" much anymore. I don't write (here or anywhere). I don't find music or stare into my own eyes for 90 hot minutes. I don't evoke myself. I have had a man in my life for going on two years about whom I have written nothing and to whom I do not speak of my past or my inner life. 

It is like Myself is inside my chest, a wild animal of feelingthought, and I keep her caged there and barely fed and drugged enough to not be ABLE to DO. And in that way, I think that I will keep myself from doing any more damage to anyone.