Puzzled?

I often write about things that...I can't write about. Legal issues. Not my story to tell. Too much personal information. Emotionally painful crap that I just don't want to share but I need to work out in my head. Writing is therapy. People that are involved or in the know, understand exactly what I reference. It's hidden in the words, but easily unlocked if you possess a super-friend decipher ring. They don't come in cereal boxes and I guard them jealously. Why do I mention this? Because I have anxiety to work off...and I can't talk about it. Damn.

I have stepped outside my comfort zone. It isn't irreversible, yet. Though I am heading at a pretty good clip down the runway...aiming straight for the edge of a cliff with nothing but homemade wings. I am not so sure how these bastards are going to hold up either. I'm ready for the leap...I think. The anxiety is compounded by the fact that someone else is in the control tower. They've approved my flight plan and started the count down, but I am still waiting for the "go". Houston, we do not have liftoff. Just kind of stalling on the lift pad. Burning fuel. Fueling anxiety. I am not good at not being in control. Could you guess? Patience is not my virtue and honestly, I'm not sure what is. So here I sit, teed up for lift off, surrounded by my flimsy but hard earned wings, questioning my sanity and waiting for the control tower to give me the green light...and they have all the time in the world.