This man just sent me a pic of myself that he has had in his possession digitally since 1997-98.
Talmbout “I still have a thing for you.”
Boo Boo imma need you to have a THING for yourself. It’s called “Pride.” Have you heard of it?
Mind you he found me on Instagram. We may not have spoken in 6-8 YEARS, but he “still has a thing for me.”
I know it’s not cool or modern or progressively female to NOT be okay with being single… But I’M NOT.
To be honest, I hate it.
It’s a menace and it makes me sad.
Not that I’m an unhappy person, that isn’t it. I have wonderful kids and friends and sisters and family and a new career path and laughter and books and coffee and delicious food and wine.
I have a good life that’s getting better every day.
Yet there is still a yearning. A space in me that is unfilled.
I make a lot of jokes and talk about the many “misses” in my dating life, but the bottom line is that I want someone to share my life with. My days and my nights…
I know. I know.
“Relationships don’t define you.”
“You shouldn’t be looking for love.”
“God will send him.”
I don’t want to hear any of that.
None of the platitudes ease my mind, comfort me, warm my bed or cure the ache for companionship that is my constant.
Yes, I’m sure this too shall pass but right now it feels relentless. Like the universe of relationships has a personal vendetta against me and decided to wage war on my coupling ability.
Dramatic, I know. But accurate.
when i don’t write i feel guilty. and with the pseudo-abandonment of this blog, i have been feeling like shit for over a year now.
this is my public promise to do better.
to stop using Facebook as a blog forum.
to spend as much energy visualizing topics to write about as i do finding time to eat all the wrong things.
to figure out how to navigate this new life i have going one without letting go of the things that make me ME.
like putting words to paper. and sharing my thoughts with strangers.
like being a writer who WRITES.
I’m going to figure this out.
This lonely in the midst of love…
This uncertainty when things aren’t that bad…
I know what I want…
I’m fighting for it everyday……
For me. For us.
The minutiae isn’t as cooperative as I would like…
But I know the Universe has my back…
Even when I don’t see it, I know it…
I’m living it, breathing it
Not trying to succumb to the dark…
Embracing the light, even when it burns…
Even when I have to close my eyes to the magnificence of its brightness…
I see the sun. I am the sun.
I am light. I am beauty. I am.
(All these years
All these tears
Why can’t I get this shit right?)
The echo resonates
A consistent heartache
No relief in sight
I know there’s more beyond this now
But knowledge is no balm
I await nighttime and its calm
Even as my mattress
Holds me hostage
Weighed down by swirling thoughts
Recollection of words caught
Between lips that lie effortlessly
Of compliments to my personality
Time after time after time
I am soothed by nothing
The darkness holds no wonder for me
It does not cradle me from harm
It does not cover me in adulation
The moon mocks me
When my most fervent dream
Is to be held in such esteem
That words would not be necessary
To be loved
To be loved
Yes, to be loved
In the desolate hours
Oh to be loved…
Most of the time, I don’t know what I’m doing.
And half of that time I’m certain that I’m doing it all wrong.
I don’t make dinners from scratch every night.
Doing homework makes me irritable.
I know my stress levels make me a crabby mom sometimes.
I raise my voice more than I should.
I don’t always want to cuddle.
They watch too much television.
My answers to their questions are sometimes way too blunt.
They don’t drink enough water.
I have more negative self talk about my parenting than any other aspect of my life…
My kids are weird and I tell them so. Annoying. Their social skills seem askew to me. Sometimes they get me so frustrated I could launch myself into a wall. But I don’t. I am attempting to raise good people, release good souls into the world. I want them to understand that the way you treat others is more important than being treated by others. I want my children to be kind, show empathy, be mentally strong and have hearts that they don’t mind sharing.
But somehow, by God’s grace or good genes or magic, these kids thrive. They possess imagination out of this world. They love big. They smile a lot. They have lots of personality. No, they aren’t perfect, but they are loving and smart and funny. We laugh a lot. We aren’t traditional. We don’t have everything we want, sometimes don’t even have everything we need, but we survive. With love.
We are a family.
Built by me.
Procrastinating, introspective, unassuming, messy me.
I did that.