Yes, I disappeared again. I tripped and fell into someone else's life, but every morning when I look in the mirror, I am again shocked that it is my life. I think about where I was a year ago today....crying, angry, shocked, confused, but relatively comfortable in thinking that everything would just blow over, again. I think about the plans I had for 2010, and how most of them didn't happen. I think about how, this day last year, began a long stretch of sleeping in a big bed alone. Of falling asleep on a wet pillow, curled in the fetal position, listening to music and dead silence all night long. Of waking up just as the sun rose, shocked that I had slept and that I was still breathing.
And really, a year later, I am shocked to find that my life has changed from even that. That this is how it turned out. That 2010 flew by, full of bullshit and sorrow and such intense emotion that I still can't find the proper words. That it is already 2011, that I've already been living in my mother's house for 8 months, almost enough time to have given birth to that second child we never had.
I think back to years ago, and I can now honestly say that I felt him slipping away years ago. And I held on, for dear fucking life, clutching and loving and pleading and pleasing, to no avail. There was very little given for all that I gave; the dreams of those two 19 year olds just slid away, first placed on the backburner, then switched out for new, more bedazzled glittery bullshit hopes. And there I was, the ever-pleasing person that I am, smiling and nodding and gushing over dreams not my own. And why??
Because I loved him.
And I thought that was enough.
I was wrong.
It's never been enough.
I share my bed with my girl. And when she's not with me, I share it with my crazy-ass boxer. Or I don't sleep in it. I share my days with over 48 older adults who have sorrows and heartbreaks much deeper and gutwrenching than mine. I share my heart with a 93 year old woman who weighs 63 lbs. I share my nights with my mother, sister, brother, and daughter, watching stupid TV, or arguing over silly things, or eating too much. I also share my nights with randomly wonderful people. People that surely wouldn't have been in my life a year ago.
I think about writing quite often. The same willow tree catches my eye every morning as I drive to work, and I see words flash before my eyes, words I want to put down in my journal, or here. I think about a house that I wanted for so long, and if I sit with my eyes closed long enough, I can almost imagine myself there, sitting in a chair on the covered back porch, pen in hand. But, this past year taught me that it really doesn't matter where I am, as long as I don't stop doing what I know is right, what I know to be true.
I stopped writing before Christmas. It wasn't in me to talk about my aches or my anger or my fears. It wasn't in me to write about feeling hopeless and lost and dizzy with desire. But I thought about it. Every day.
So. Here I am.
Exposed. Unsure. Tempermental. Weary. Lonely.