I’ve been choking on a bout of writer’s block with side orders of seasonal affective disorder and a malfunctioning laptop. My last post was two months ago. I created this sugar-crusted cranberry orange cake during the New Year’s weekend and lost my recipe, written on the back of a torn envelope, before I could post.
It’s not that I don’t want to write, but so much of my time, my thinking, is entangled with him these days. I no longer feel comfortable telling you about our interactions. It’s become a bit more serious and it’s not fair to him to share without his knowledge. But, without this sharing, I have nothing left to say.
Strip away our conversations, our dates, our exchange of ideas, and my musings on him and I am a ghostly, diaphanous creature these days. That’s frightening. Can I really lose myself so easily – and only after a few months? He called me a “pleaser” last week. I bristle at that moniker. To me, a “pleaser” subjugates their wants and needs for another. On the contrary – I want to share my delight in the world’s pleasures equally, not one-sidedly. I want to please him – and be pleased in return.
Saturday night found me alone – and feeling LONELY. What new horror is this? I’ve spent hundreds of Saturdays alone without a second thought – and now the silence is deafening. I finally retreated to P’s house for some company.
Fear is creeping in again. How can he continue to like me if “I” no longer exist? I’m trying to find myself – especially the part of me who writes here. I spent yesterday in the back garden, cleaning up the mess the winter has left behind – raking leaves, pulling weeds, cutting back dead plants. Four and a half hours of this moving meditation. Tonight, yoga – the greatest tool I know for reconnecting with myself, grounding myself – and hopefully once again finding my substance.
I haven’t been writing much lately – and not because I have little to say. My head is still easily filled with swirling thoughts of death and dying. Silly things bring me to tears. I think you’re sick of hearing about it. I think you want to tell me “move on, get over it”. I know I’m sick of talking about it. So, I remain silent.
I’ve been quiet lately. Not out of grief…not really. I’m in an amelioration period, of sorts. Sitting beside a loved one as they leave this world and the aftermath isn’t merely mentally taxing, but it’s physical as well. I’m spent and have nothing to give.
This week, I’m a brittle paper cutout of my normal self. Yet, most of my circle doesn’t notice. I get up (a little later than usual), I work (a little quieter than normal), I go home (a bit earlier than expected), I gel in front of the television (mindlessly) and go back to sleep (fitfully).
I have nothing to write. My thoughts are not deep. My yoga practice would help… so would meditation…and a long walk. I don’t have the strength for any of that. Can’t I just say, “Fuck work, fuck my responsibilities, fuck my life”, and take time off somewhere to sleep, to find myself, to meditate – to shut down and reboot?
I’m usually a strong woman, but today, I’d like to crawl into someone’s arms and just stay there, for about a week, allowing them to fix me. But it doesn’t work like that, does it? I have to be cute and witty and charming and the caretaker and the vixen and the executive and the chef – I always have to be “on”.
Can I turn off for a while? Do I have that choice?
Two-Bit Tart 