They always say to write about what hurts.
…to write what it’s like to be human.
…to tell everyone what makes you afraid, and how to overcome pain with a beautiful story that is true and worn and chipped like an old dish.
Let me start by saying this whole thing really messed me up. This divorce thing. I want to believe my story will take off again after my “proposed” year of mourning and moving through what it is like to lose someone you love more than anything.
I think about my friends who have gone through the same, moving on and getting married again. I get tired of the phrase moving on because it’s such a vague thing, right?
I’d love more than anything to become infatuated again and to fall deeply in love and dig my heels in deep to a piece of earth, where I may or may not plant my favorite kind of tomatoes again.
I’m afraid, like most people, that I’ve met and lost that one person, and that it won’t be this way ever again. I hate to admit to that. And I know the lots of ya will tell me to get out there and to be vulnerable.
But to be honest, I am.
It is so tiring for me. Especially when the person across from you never asks you questions and all they do is consume yours. It’s hard asking questions all the time. It’s hard to respond sometimes too. I get exhausted with small groups and just want what so many other people want. I want to lay my head in someone’s lap and fall asleep there, as I feel their breathing.
I don’t like the way “being single on the move” makes me feel. Like some sort of hidden intention all the time. I realize that’s how it goes, but I’m not good at that. I catch my own bullshit all the time. I know the kind of person I am. The Animals said it best for me,
I’m just a soul whose intentions are good, oh Lord, please don’t let me be misunderstood.
I will write as long as I need to,
About what is scary, and true to me.
About how I get sad sometimes when my friends get pregnant or married and move on with their own little families. I am ultimately filled with love for them, but I also understand that there’s some mourning, and this is something new I’ve had to learn.
It is hard for me to do so, especially now that I hold tight to anything good. And when I feel it start to slip away, I panic and think that I have to move again. That I have to reinvent myself and change into something other people will find attractive. That I have to be someone that I’m not. Maybe that’s some defense mechanism I’ve gained this past year. If I don’t feel like I’m wanted, I start thinking I have to move elsewhere. That I have to figure it out. And that I am going to figure it out all on my own.
I am movin’ like molasses on a chilly day…
A part of me wishes I had a story of finding love again quickly, and that my sadness was spared, but it is not, and that’s okay.
It allows me to paint with colors I’ve never seen before.
It allows me describe an entirely different landscape, and how I often fade into the horizon,
with all the other reds, oranges and blues,
making it impossible to determine where one color ends, and the other begins.