It’s Sunday, and this was supposed to be a Marla Tells All.  I was supposed to cleanse my soul, throw all caution to the wind, seek validation, expose my ex-husband, and share  every mile of my paralyzing journey.  Pages of cathartic and disturbing revelations now just sit, while my residence on the High Road seems like permanent housing.

A night with my girlfriends is guaranteed laughs, tears, and therapy.  We vent, we confide, we tease, and they share about their beautiful children.  I love hearing about the accomplishments and relationships of their peanuts, and they know that, more than anything, I wish that I, too, could share about mine.   Recognizing my raw wounds, they offer advice when I look like my proverbial Mah Jongg tiles are coming off of the rack.

Our recent gathering was a smorgasbord of love, lox, and deep discussion, and my proposed, purging blog entry came up.  It was just about unanimous that I should keep going high as they continue to go low, citing that those who know me have witnessed firsthand the backstory and the emotion behind my written words.  Those who know me and who have stayed aboard the S.S. Gaslight are not jumping off of it.  I’ve certainly reached a ten-lifetime quota of abandonment, but I can extract peace from the loyalists who remain.

I’m waiting for a call telling me that my MRI and MRA have been scheduled.  The facial numbness remains and is both off-putting and terrifying.  I told a dear friend that I’m not ready for further testing of my strength, so this lady who has lost her faith needs to find some ASAP.  Perhaps the High Road is the right place to look.