I ain't dead. Yet.

It certainly has been a while since I wrote anything substantial. I could certainly use all the tired blogger clichés, "I've been super busy." "Can't think of anything to write." "The family is taking all of my time." All those lines that we whom write in this media use all too often. But I'm not going to go there. While it is true that I've been busy, and Butters and Rotormommy have taken a lot of my time, I certainly am not at a loss of things to cover. From the recent happenings in the family, to the ongoing separation from Mac, photography, hockey, and beyond, I have a plethora of topics to write about.

And yet, the words do not come.

They're there, in my mind, but the difficulty comes from trying to get those words from my mind to the keys and onto the screen. They just won't flow. All of it stems from a general feeling of being defeated. A loneliness. Hollow. Empty.

In the month and a half that my daughter has spent 2000 miles away from us, we've managed to spend all of nine hours and fifteen minutes together. This time so generously donated to us by her mother since they would be in the area for her brother's nuptials.

Mac is the most remarkable child anyone has met. Those that have met her praise her on numerous occasions. She is every bit her father's child, easy like Sunday morning and allowing little to get to her. But, when it does, she internalizes those feelings, saving that anguish for herself so others are spared the expense of seeing her so unhappy.

So when we shared those few precious hours together, while outwardly both she and I were happy, inside raged a ball of emotion straining against the bonds placed there to hide it all. I knew what she was feeling, and she me. But despite the short time we had, we both soldiered on as if we were never apart.

The single greatest gift she gave to us in that time, was professing to both Rotormommy and myself just how much she missed hearing her baby brother babbling. You see, where we only know the pain of having one hole in our heart, she bears the burden of multiple ones. She alone knows what it feels like to loose everyone and everything. In a sick sort of way, we've got it easy.

But, that doesn't make it any easier for any of us.

There are certainly avenues I could pursue to rectify this situation, but to what end? Those actions, while beneficial to us, would make me no better than the woman who ripped Mac away from us in the first place. I have friends I could talk to, but none have ever faced anything like this. Those in situations remotely similar are on the other side of it, their child with them. And yet, for all the pain and the tears, for all the heartache and sorrow, I don't want to talk to others about this. I don't want to know that others suffer through this horror. If, in my suffering, it keeps someone from having to experience it, so be it. Such is a cross I'd gladly bear to keep my fellow man from having to know this nightmare.

Writing this may see contrary. Saying I don't want to talk about it and yet writing about it seems counterintuitive. But I'm not writing this as a commentary for the pains I, and my family, suffer. Rather, this is about getting the words to flow. About trying to confront the block that has been bothering me for so very long.

And if nothing else, this serves notice that I ain't dead. Yet.