Some stuff happened in 2010:
The Good:
I finished school.
I hung out with my personal trainer 49 times. Sometimes I even exercised.
Stayed in the same job.
Tried internet dating.
Tried publishing a short story.
Tried black pudding.
Went to Malaysia.
Moved house.
The Bad:
I left my husband.
Well he left me.
We left each other.
We said goodbye to a beautiful, caring, amazing woman-my brother in laws mum. May the memory of her sun shiny smile always remind us to look for hope and happiness in this life.
I got sun burnt (okay, okay, that was just something that happened today.)
2011 is so curvy with possibilities. Like a heavily pregnant woman.
Next year, I would like to:
Publish something.
Visit a hairdresser.
Get the battery on my computer fixed.
Get a job that pays me enough to stop worrying about money all the time.
OR stop spending money on stupid stuff when the rent is due.
Visit Paris.
Maybe go to Wales?
Run a half marathon!
Drink more water.
Spend more time with different people.
maybe go to wales?
Go to Wales.
Walk or run every day.
Be a better housemate.
Cook more.
Eat more.
Watch less crappy films.
Learn some french.
and probably go to Wales.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Monday, December 27, 2010
Scars.
We have matching scars above our eyebrows. Mine is from a cat scratch, I don't know what his is from.
He also has a deep scar on his bottom lip that traces the curve of his pout.
It is so beautiful that i think that the car accident that put it there was almost worth it. I don't think he would agree. But of course, that all happened long before I knew him. His car skidded across some black ice or the snow fell too heavily on his windscreen or a lorry lost control in the sleet. i don’t know the details. When he talks about it, i am too distracted by the scar and how much i want to run my tongue along its jagged edge.
At the same time that the steering wheel was pushing itself through his lip, I was probably sun baking on the other side of the planet. I guess in that way, we are worlds apart.
I have never seen the place he grew up. Never patted his cat or smiled at his niece. I have never witnessed how he talks to his brothers or if he looks his mother in the face when he says goodbye. I don’t know what he looked like as a child or the colour of his school uniform. I don’t even know if he had a school uniform.
He has no context except for right here and right now. The joy I see in his eyes when the sun comes out. His heavy breathing when he talks about his wife. His grin when he teases me. And the way that, that scar curves along his mouth when he frowns. These are the blocks that i build my love on.
I know nothing about him, except for who he is today. His past is hidden behind a plane trip, a decision to leave, a kiss goodbye, jet lag and a failed marriage that sticks to him like tar. All the things that led him to be laying, barely awake, curled around my body this morning, like a crooked question mark.
I have seen his scars and i love him anyway, in spite of them.
No, I have seen his scars and i love him because of them. I guess they match mine.
He also has a deep scar on his bottom lip that traces the curve of his pout.
It is so beautiful that i think that the car accident that put it there was almost worth it. I don't think he would agree. But of course, that all happened long before I knew him. His car skidded across some black ice or the snow fell too heavily on his windscreen or a lorry lost control in the sleet. i don’t know the details. When he talks about it, i am too distracted by the scar and how much i want to run my tongue along its jagged edge.
At the same time that the steering wheel was pushing itself through his lip, I was probably sun baking on the other side of the planet. I guess in that way, we are worlds apart.
I have never seen the place he grew up. Never patted his cat or smiled at his niece. I have never witnessed how he talks to his brothers or if he looks his mother in the face when he says goodbye. I don’t know what he looked like as a child or the colour of his school uniform. I don’t even know if he had a school uniform.
He has no context except for right here and right now. The joy I see in his eyes when the sun comes out. His heavy breathing when he talks about his wife. His grin when he teases me. And the way that, that scar curves along his mouth when he frowns. These are the blocks that i build my love on.
I know nothing about him, except for who he is today. His past is hidden behind a plane trip, a decision to leave, a kiss goodbye, jet lag and a failed marriage that sticks to him like tar. All the things that led him to be laying, barely awake, curled around my body this morning, like a crooked question mark.
I have seen his scars and i love him anyway, in spite of them.
No, I have seen his scars and i love him because of them. I guess they match mine.
Yey.
I just bought new runners.
More jogging, more blogging.
New years resolution is to run the half marathon in October. For real this time.
I have worked something out for myself this year: When I decide to do something, it takes approximately 1.5 years to come to fruition. So, on that note, I am going to publish something or the written form in the next ear and a half.
The end.
More jogging, more blogging.
New years resolution is to run the half marathon in October. For real this time.
I have worked something out for myself this year: When I decide to do something, it takes approximately 1.5 years to come to fruition. So, on that note, I am going to publish something or the written form in the next ear and a half.
The end.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Bret Easton Ellis
So i want to tell you all a little story that I've never shared on here. It's about the time i met Bret Easton Ellis. It is also about love. The main thing it is about though is how life twists and turns and navigates it's way through the terrain of relationships.
It was a Friday. Interesting things always happen to me on a Friday. Life has had a full week to ripen up to bursting point and by the time i pluck it, it usually splatters laughter and a dose of the surreal all over my weekend.
When i got home, there was a hand delivered note sitting on my doorstep. I recognised his hand writing immediately. Of course i did. I'd seen it a thousand times curling it's way around shopping lists and love letters and notes on my pillow. It was from him.
We'd seen each other earlier in the week. I had been honest for the first time in months, with him. I was over it, bored of the grief, restless in the separation. I wanted to blame him, make him feel my pain, feel my hurt, feel something for fucks sake. We'd had coffee and i had sliced through our pseudo friendship with carefully chosen words about how he had changed me. I actually saw him take a gulp. He looked paler than before. I had hit the mark, finally he had heard me.
"I don't think we should hang out like this if I make you upset." He had said as i focused on a street sign behind him.
Stop, it said. Stop. Stop . Stop. Stop. Stop.
"Oh!" I half laughed and half spat "I never want to see you again after today."
And it had felt immediately fantastic and i had almost immediately regretted it.
I was bitchy enough to ask him for a lift home.
What happened next is a tidal wave and a rainbow. We are standing in the drive way. We hug. Somehow, suddenly, we are crying. The sun is in my eyes and there is mascara on his shirt. I cannot let go. I never want to let him go. His snot is in my hair. It's so gross but i don't care. I love this man. This man. The one who lets me in and doesn't shoot me as i try to scale the walls.
"I have to show you something." I tell him.
And so we go inside my apartment and i pass him my computer. He needs to see this. He needs to understand what the last six months have been for me. So he reads my story. The one that is all about him and I. The one that details all the gore but recalls all the happiness. It's a story about a girl and a boy.
"It's true." He looks confused. "It's all true."
Because it is and he had forgotten.
He leaves, of course, because this is real life and not a story. If it was story, we would have kissed and fallen giggling into each others arms. He would have looked me in the eye and apologised and i would have shushed him with nothing more than a squeeze of his hand. The pain would have melted away and all our friends would have said they were not surprised.
He leaves, of course.
So on that Friday i return home from work and find his letter. I am scared to read it. This is real life and not a story. I wait until my sister arrives because i need back up on this one. A voice of reason. Some perspective. A parallel to my life that only my sister can provide.
We sit in her car.
The letter is four pages long. I am crying by the second page. This is real life and not a story. There cannot be a happy ending to this one because she will always be dead, even if i write it a thousand different ways.
What i read is that his grief enveloped him. That he couldn't see the forest for the trees. That he couldn't have love and happiness without guilt and regret. I read his words and I understand. I finally understand why he disappeared. It had nothing to do with me. It was not my fault. There is nothing i could have done.
He asks for my forgiveness. By page four, he already has it.
i wipe my eyes and pull myself together. I sit in the audience while Bret Easton Ellis talk about life being his inspiration. That you have to have fucked up shit happen to you, to be a writer. I realise i am a writer.
I meet Bret afterwards. I have bought a new copy of American Psycho for him to sign. The one i own is a photocopied version i found in Thailand. We had both read it. He never finished it though. The print was too faint and he gave up. He gave up long before i gave up.
Suddenly i am standing before one of the greatest writers of my lifetime (big call.) He is shorter and more human looking than i had expected. I kneel next to his table for some reason, and hand him my book. What's your name? He asks. I tell him but ask him not to dedicate the book to me. I tell him my husbands name and then blurt out something about a letter, about love about a story i wrote. Bret stares through his black rimmed glasses at the crazy lady kneeling before him. He says it seems sweet. Then changes his mind and asks me if it is sweet or if it's? If it's? My sister assures him that it's sweet and helps me off the floor.
I drop the book to him a few days later. He is smiling. He finally gets to finish it. But what he really needs to read is on the title page. I watch him as he turns the pages. Notice his eyes change as he registers the words. He touches the black ink.
"To L,
She says she forgives you.
Bret Easton Ellis. "
And just like that, i really, really do.
We will never be together again, you understand. It's not about forgiving him so we can traipse off together into happily ever after. It's forgiving him so we can traipse separately. It's letting him go. And helping him let me go.
"Dear Bret,
Thank you for changing my life,
I jog therefore i blog."
The end.
It was a Friday. Interesting things always happen to me on a Friday. Life has had a full week to ripen up to bursting point and by the time i pluck it, it usually splatters laughter and a dose of the surreal all over my weekend.
When i got home, there was a hand delivered note sitting on my doorstep. I recognised his hand writing immediately. Of course i did. I'd seen it a thousand times curling it's way around shopping lists and love letters and notes on my pillow. It was from him.
We'd seen each other earlier in the week. I had been honest for the first time in months, with him. I was over it, bored of the grief, restless in the separation. I wanted to blame him, make him feel my pain, feel my hurt, feel something for fucks sake. We'd had coffee and i had sliced through our pseudo friendship with carefully chosen words about how he had changed me. I actually saw him take a gulp. He looked paler than before. I had hit the mark, finally he had heard me.
"I don't think we should hang out like this if I make you upset." He had said as i focused on a street sign behind him.
Stop, it said. Stop. Stop . Stop. Stop. Stop.
"Oh!" I half laughed and half spat "I never want to see you again after today."
And it had felt immediately fantastic and i had almost immediately regretted it.
I was bitchy enough to ask him for a lift home.
What happened next is a tidal wave and a rainbow. We are standing in the drive way. We hug. Somehow, suddenly, we are crying. The sun is in my eyes and there is mascara on his shirt. I cannot let go. I never want to let him go. His snot is in my hair. It's so gross but i don't care. I love this man. This man. The one who lets me in and doesn't shoot me as i try to scale the walls.
"I have to show you something." I tell him.
And so we go inside my apartment and i pass him my computer. He needs to see this. He needs to understand what the last six months have been for me. So he reads my story. The one that is all about him and I. The one that details all the gore but recalls all the happiness. It's a story about a girl and a boy.
"It's true." He looks confused. "It's all true."
Because it is and he had forgotten.
He leaves, of course, because this is real life and not a story. If it was story, we would have kissed and fallen giggling into each others arms. He would have looked me in the eye and apologised and i would have shushed him with nothing more than a squeeze of his hand. The pain would have melted away and all our friends would have said they were not surprised.
He leaves, of course.
So on that Friday i return home from work and find his letter. I am scared to read it. This is real life and not a story. I wait until my sister arrives because i need back up on this one. A voice of reason. Some perspective. A parallel to my life that only my sister can provide.
We sit in her car.
The letter is four pages long. I am crying by the second page. This is real life and not a story. There cannot be a happy ending to this one because she will always be dead, even if i write it a thousand different ways.
What i read is that his grief enveloped him. That he couldn't see the forest for the trees. That he couldn't have love and happiness without guilt and regret. I read his words and I understand. I finally understand why he disappeared. It had nothing to do with me. It was not my fault. There is nothing i could have done.
He asks for my forgiveness. By page four, he already has it.
i wipe my eyes and pull myself together. I sit in the audience while Bret Easton Ellis talk about life being his inspiration. That you have to have fucked up shit happen to you, to be a writer. I realise i am a writer.
I meet Bret afterwards. I have bought a new copy of American Psycho for him to sign. The one i own is a photocopied version i found in Thailand. We had both read it. He never finished it though. The print was too faint and he gave up. He gave up long before i gave up.
Suddenly i am standing before one of the greatest writers of my lifetime (big call.) He is shorter and more human looking than i had expected. I kneel next to his table for some reason, and hand him my book. What's your name? He asks. I tell him but ask him not to dedicate the book to me. I tell him my husbands name and then blurt out something about a letter, about love about a story i wrote. Bret stares through his black rimmed glasses at the crazy lady kneeling before him. He says it seems sweet. Then changes his mind and asks me if it is sweet or if it's? If it's? My sister assures him that it's sweet and helps me off the floor.
I drop the book to him a few days later. He is smiling. He finally gets to finish it. But what he really needs to read is on the title page. I watch him as he turns the pages. Notice his eyes change as he registers the words. He touches the black ink.
"To L,
She says she forgives you.
Bret Easton Ellis. "
And just like that, i really, really do.
We will never be together again, you understand. It's not about forgiving him so we can traipse off together into happily ever after. It's forgiving him so we can traipse separately. It's letting him go. And helping him let me go.
"Dear Bret,
Thank you for changing my life,
I jog therefore i blog."
The end.
Monday, December 20, 2010
An open letter.
And so this is Christmas.
In all the present buying, 50 hour working week, wine drinking on monday night madness, i have crash banged right up against my unfinished business.
Why does Christmas do this to us? The thought of the year ending automatically brings up a "yessssnooooooooo" feeling for me. On the one hand, i cannot wait for it to be over, but then on the other? That will mean it is over. I wonder why we find it so hard to let go of the things that hurt us?
At this point, the ex husband and i are no longer speaking. It's horrible and it's hard, but it is what has to happen if we have any hope of moving forward without each other. So in place of all the things i would like to tell him this Christmas, I thought an open letter was in order. I mean, it has to go somewhere doesn't it?
Dear L,
I've been thinking about you these last few days, quite a lot actually.
I keep thinking about last Christmas and that treasure hunt and of course my pink bike. I've been thinking also about the Christmas before which is almost too painful to look at. When i glance into that corner of my brain, i see you again. The you that I adored so very, very much. We are sitting at your brothers, and pulling bon-bons and your mum is there. She's dressed all in white and has a goofy paper hat on and a baby in her arms. She looks so happy. She really seems so happy.
I cannot bear to think about what came before or after that minute in time. It hurts too much to remember who we were then.
The other thing i've been thinking about is our first Christmas together. About how you played santa and put out stockings for us in the middle of the night. When i saw them in the morning, for a split second i was 5 years old again. I gasped because for a second, santa was real! You had bought magic into my life.
I think i have been scared to remember the good times. It's easier to believe that the whole thing was a lie. That it was just a matter of making a mistake, of marrying the wrong person. Feeling like I married the right person but then lost you is just too devastating. It makes me miss you too much.
I am sorry that this Christmas, we are not speaking. I am so sorry that the things i do hurt you. I wish things had been different, that we had been different, that i could tug on those hands of time and rewrite this whole story. Mostly i am just sorry that we turned out to be like every other couple who breaks up in the world. I'm sorry. When we broke up, i was relieved that I wouldn't have to deal with the grief anymore, that your fucked up family was no longer mine. I am so sorry for feeling that way. I miss them, warts and all, more than i can explain.
It is not your fault. It never was. It's not your mums fault either. No one is to blame. I cannot remember much from what your mum wrote in that last note, but i do remember her asking for forgiveness. So i want you to know that I forgive you for everything and I am working on forgiving myself.
I know you, and i know this Christmas will be a hard one for you. But you have faced worse things in your life and things can really, only get better. And they will. That's my wish for you L, today and always, that the happiness we felt with each other reappears someday. It won't be this Christmas, but maybe by the next?
I trust you. I trust that you are living the kind of life that you want to live. Beyond that, there is nothing else i can do.
Merry Christmas L, and a happy new year.
In all the present buying, 50 hour working week, wine drinking on monday night madness, i have crash banged right up against my unfinished business.
Why does Christmas do this to us? The thought of the year ending automatically brings up a "yessssnooooooooo" feeling for me. On the one hand, i cannot wait for it to be over, but then on the other? That will mean it is over. I wonder why we find it so hard to let go of the things that hurt us?
At this point, the ex husband and i are no longer speaking. It's horrible and it's hard, but it is what has to happen if we have any hope of moving forward without each other. So in place of all the things i would like to tell him this Christmas, I thought an open letter was in order. I mean, it has to go somewhere doesn't it?
Dear L,
I've been thinking about you these last few days, quite a lot actually.
I keep thinking about last Christmas and that treasure hunt and of course my pink bike. I've been thinking also about the Christmas before which is almost too painful to look at. When i glance into that corner of my brain, i see you again. The you that I adored so very, very much. We are sitting at your brothers, and pulling bon-bons and your mum is there. She's dressed all in white and has a goofy paper hat on and a baby in her arms. She looks so happy. She really seems so happy.
I cannot bear to think about what came before or after that minute in time. It hurts too much to remember who we were then.
The other thing i've been thinking about is our first Christmas together. About how you played santa and put out stockings for us in the middle of the night. When i saw them in the morning, for a split second i was 5 years old again. I gasped because for a second, santa was real! You had bought magic into my life.
I think i have been scared to remember the good times. It's easier to believe that the whole thing was a lie. That it was just a matter of making a mistake, of marrying the wrong person. Feeling like I married the right person but then lost you is just too devastating. It makes me miss you too much.
I am sorry that this Christmas, we are not speaking. I am so sorry that the things i do hurt you. I wish things had been different, that we had been different, that i could tug on those hands of time and rewrite this whole story. Mostly i am just sorry that we turned out to be like every other couple who breaks up in the world. I'm sorry. When we broke up, i was relieved that I wouldn't have to deal with the grief anymore, that your fucked up family was no longer mine. I am so sorry for feeling that way. I miss them, warts and all, more than i can explain.
It is not your fault. It never was. It's not your mums fault either. No one is to blame. I cannot remember much from what your mum wrote in that last note, but i do remember her asking for forgiveness. So i want you to know that I forgive you for everything and I am working on forgiving myself.
I know you, and i know this Christmas will be a hard one for you. But you have faced worse things in your life and things can really, only get better. And they will. That's my wish for you L, today and always, that the happiness we felt with each other reappears someday. It won't be this Christmas, but maybe by the next?
I trust you. I trust that you are living the kind of life that you want to live. Beyond that, there is nothing else i can do.
Merry Christmas L, and a happy new year.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
The trade off.
Last night i met my wonderful bookclub friends to discuss my boyfriends novel Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. (Johnathan Safran Foer is not really my boyfriend. Well he is in my head, but not in real life.)
Of course we talked about 9/11, we talked about parenting and metaphors and human relationships. And we talked about grief. At one point, my sister mentioned that her grief counsellor had said something poignant on the subject recently. I hope she doesn't mind me sharing it here. The essence of the statement was that grief does not go away. You never "Get over it." It changes and it changes you. It makes you numb and makes you feel. It doesn't go away though. The main thing about grief is that it serves as a reminder that you once loved someone very much, and then they died.
The dying part is not the important part of that statement. The loving part is. It is not as simple as I loved her for two years=i cried everyday for five. Or she told me she loved me on my wedding day=I will never marry anyone again to honor that. The ways in which you grieve are not a reflection on how much you loved. The fact that you grief is. Or the fact that you cannot grieve is. Either way, you loved.
And isn't that what this tiny and huge life is all about? That capacity to find pockets within our souls to keep those precious parts in? The people, the smiles, the mishmash of memories? When i finally die, be in tomorrow or in 75 years, i hope my heart looks like an advent calendar with endless windows. And behind each one would be things like "The time i held my niece for the very first time" and "the way "I love you" sounds in Welsh." Somewhere in amongst it all will be "I once loved a man so deeply and passionately that when his heart broke, i gave him half of mine" and "I finally forgive you."
And each little window will close one by one and noone will ever be able to take those things away or change them. They will exist forever. They already exist forever.
Of course we talked about 9/11, we talked about parenting and metaphors and human relationships. And we talked about grief. At one point, my sister mentioned that her grief counsellor had said something poignant on the subject recently. I hope she doesn't mind me sharing it here. The essence of the statement was that grief does not go away. You never "Get over it." It changes and it changes you. It makes you numb and makes you feel. It doesn't go away though. The main thing about grief is that it serves as a reminder that you once loved someone very much, and then they died.
The dying part is not the important part of that statement. The loving part is. It is not as simple as I loved her for two years=i cried everyday for five. Or she told me she loved me on my wedding day=I will never marry anyone again to honor that. The ways in which you grieve are not a reflection on how much you loved. The fact that you grief is. Or the fact that you cannot grieve is. Either way, you loved.
And isn't that what this tiny and huge life is all about? That capacity to find pockets within our souls to keep those precious parts in? The people, the smiles, the mishmash of memories? When i finally die, be in tomorrow or in 75 years, i hope my heart looks like an advent calendar with endless windows. And behind each one would be things like "The time i held my niece for the very first time" and "the way "I love you" sounds in Welsh." Somewhere in amongst it all will be "I once loved a man so deeply and passionately that when his heart broke, i gave him half of mine" and "I finally forgive you."
And each little window will close one by one and noone will ever be able to take those things away or change them. They will exist forever. They already exist forever.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Inspiration station or creativity on tap.
My creative well seems rather dry of late. What is going on?
It could be many things:
1. I usually write when i am feeling extreme emotions. I am pretty content right now which is great for life *applause* not great for writing *booooo*
2. I have finished school. No more being forced into painting 3 times a week. God, i miss it. I am going to enforce a once a week crafternoon once point three is over.
Point three: i am working 6 days a week and it is impacting upon my sensitive disposition. I don't hate people but I sure as hell have murderous thoughts about 90% of the people i come into contact with at work. My inner dialogue is like a scene out of kick ass where the little kid chops of legs 'n' shit. Sickkk......See? I have gone all bad ass.
Welsh recommended meditation last night which has been on my to do list between "yoga" and "stop drinking coffee" for as long as i can remember. Perhaps a new years resolution list is in order.
In the mean time, i am just going to take Nikes advice and do it. Paint that is. And write. Not run for crying out loud. It is far too hot for nonsense like that.
It could be many things:
1. I usually write when i am feeling extreme emotions. I am pretty content right now which is great for life *applause* not great for writing *booooo*
2. I have finished school. No more being forced into painting 3 times a week. God, i miss it. I am going to enforce a once a week crafternoon once point three is over.
Point three: i am working 6 days a week and it is impacting upon my sensitive disposition. I don't hate people but I sure as hell have murderous thoughts about 90% of the people i come into contact with at work. My inner dialogue is like a scene out of kick ass where the little kid chops of legs 'n' shit. Sickkk......See? I have gone all bad ass.
Welsh recommended meditation last night which has been on my to do list between "yoga" and "stop drinking coffee" for as long as i can remember. Perhaps a new years resolution list is in order.
In the mean time, i am just going to take Nikes advice and do it. Paint that is. And write. Not run for crying out loud. It is far too hot for nonsense like that.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
You know what's weird?
That yesterday i found myself at a gm christmas bbq. Who would have thought that such a thing existed? Not me, that is for sure.
But it does and I was invited. This means two things:
1. I am now someone who goes to the gym regularly.
2. I am no longer someone who does not go to the gym.
So thats been a massive change for me this year. The whole looking after my body and getting stronger and fit. I am excited to get to January and have it be a whole year since i started running. Even though i barely run at the moment, it's been an evolution from nothingness into somethingness.
The end.
(i am exhausted.)
But it does and I was invited. This means two things:
1. I am now someone who goes to the gym regularly.
2. I am no longer someone who does not go to the gym.
So thats been a massive change for me this year. The whole looking after my body and getting stronger and fit. I am excited to get to January and have it be a whole year since i started running. Even though i barely run at the moment, it's been an evolution from nothingness into somethingness.
The end.
(i am exhausted.)
Monday, December 6, 2010
Hearts memory.
ahhhhh! guess what? I am totally better!
I had a parasite. The only good thing about having a parasite is that it gave one of my sisters an opportunity to say "night, night parasite" which i find hilarious for some weird reason.
I also had a chance to take time off work and chill out emotionally. I think finishing school and going away and coming back to work was all a bit intense. I feel like my mind is much quieter now. i don't feel as impatient. I cried last night for the first time in a few weeks. (I know that does not seem like a long time, but it is in my world. i laugh alot, i cry alot. That's just the way it is for me.) It was good to get it out and i guess i kinda know why i have been sensitive lately.
This whole love, divorce, loving again thing is difficult to swallow. It's so scary and weird at times. I have this sense that the closer i get to Welsh, the more i am remembering how much i have lost. It's as though i forgot how deep my capacity for connection is, because my marriage was well and truly off the rails. Now just being with someone in that way-the hand holding, the dancing on the beach for no reason, the laughing, makes me recall that I had that once with someone else. I had the butterflies and the I love you toos and the inside jokes and the i get yous. And he was my best friend and the most amazing man that, that 25 year old girl had ever met. Then it all turned to shit, basically.
But it was not always like that. Oh no, it was not always like that at all. And now i remember and i finally understand why I jumped both feet in and gasped "YES!" when, after 8 weeks, he proposed. I get it. I was not silly or crazy or irrational. i was in love.
I had a parasite. The only good thing about having a parasite is that it gave one of my sisters an opportunity to say "night, night parasite" which i find hilarious for some weird reason.
I also had a chance to take time off work and chill out emotionally. I think finishing school and going away and coming back to work was all a bit intense. I feel like my mind is much quieter now. i don't feel as impatient. I cried last night for the first time in a few weeks. (I know that does not seem like a long time, but it is in my world. i laugh alot, i cry alot. That's just the way it is for me.) It was good to get it out and i guess i kinda know why i have been sensitive lately.
This whole love, divorce, loving again thing is difficult to swallow. It's so scary and weird at times. I have this sense that the closer i get to Welsh, the more i am remembering how much i have lost. It's as though i forgot how deep my capacity for connection is, because my marriage was well and truly off the rails. Now just being with someone in that way-the hand holding, the dancing on the beach for no reason, the laughing, makes me recall that I had that once with someone else. I had the butterflies and the I love you toos and the inside jokes and the i get yous. And he was my best friend and the most amazing man that, that 25 year old girl had ever met. Then it all turned to shit, basically.
But it was not always like that. Oh no, it was not always like that at all. And now i remember and i finally understand why I jumped both feet in and gasped "YES!" when, after 8 weeks, he proposed. I get it. I was not silly or crazy or irrational. i was in love.
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