Did some packing yesterday.
Boy was it hard to pack a box,
and not feel like all those months ago when I said
how good it felt to know that I'd unpacked for the final time,
turned out to be a lie.
A lie to myself.
And I hate lying.
I preach that actually. How wrong it is to lie.
Many many years ago,
when I was a not so good girl, I took to lying.
Pretty much because I could get away with it most times.
It was all a part of the dysfunction of growing up Johnston...
One day I flat out lied to my aunt.
She made me slap her in the face.
I was terrified.
She told me to slap her so I would realize how much it hurt her
that I'd lied. That slapping her would somehow inflict the same kind of pain,
as she was feeling after I'd been dishonest point blank - to her face.
And I did. Slap her.
It makes me sick to my stomach to think about it today.
But from that moment forward
my life became my truth.
As a mother, I know that my kids could do just about anything,
but lie, and I'd be OK with it.
It makes me furious - lies.
Furious to think that my kids might do things that I did when I was young.
I don't ever want that to happen.
I try my best to impress upon them how important it is to be truthful.
To gain and keep trust.
So I struggle with the mere thought that I've been un-truthful.
That I've lied to my family.
That I lied to my kids.
or worse still - me.
Has this all been a lie? I have to think NOT.
Someone very close to me asked me, when I told him we had
decided to move, if everything I had written on my blog was a lie.
I was so taken aback. Sick in fact.
This all has not been a lie. It is what it is.
A stepping stone to the next chapter of my life.
A necessity in order to save my sanity.
A chance to take a breath.
A time out.
My appreciation for every day,
for what my life was,
where I was,
who I was with.
So as I pack, I have to think too,
that the smile on my face,
my excitement for what is to come,
the weightlessness that I feel in my heart,
is, in fact, my truth.