"Continue to go to your studio, to work toward your degree, to save the world, to be a writer, and to be everything you want and know you can be. And I promise you that someone will want to take part in that life with you. And that person will be close to you, and willing to put everything aside to make it work."
I spoke to a friend yesterday. She says, "Come see me! There will be lots of single guys who have seen your picture and want to meet you – and distance won’t matter to them.” I swallow in an effort to stifle that choking sensation before the tears well in my eyes. And I whine to her again pathetically, "I just want him to change his mind." Then I inch my way deeper beneath the jersey sheets of my refuge. It's only been 24 hours and already I'm so tired of this disgusting, morose version of me...
When I embarked on my exodus from the East Coast, I retraced my interstate journey with certainty about some things. I knew that I was making the right decision. I knew that even though it was terribly painful it was for the best. I knew that something better was out there. Even if it didn't always seem that I knew it, I did. Deep in the ruins of my heart I didn't question my actions.
Eventually I came to the inherent realization that being single would be OK - I wouldn't love it, but it was an inevitable fate, and it worked well with the plan to lock away my heart in an impenetrable vault. Accepting and letting go of the disappointment was another thing all together, and as most will recall, it manifested itself as a very unhealthy version of trying to right things that were much too wrong for fixing.
I predicted a year without love...without being willing to give it and too afraid to think about trying to accept it. "Vulnerable" was the last thing I hoped to be - ever again. Sometimes heartbreak just wears you down. I began to be content with the single life - a handful of first dates, the thought of living on my own in my chic little loft, becoming a fantastic emulation of my independent mother. I put any hope of domestic life with the man of my dreams on the back burner - more in the dark corner of the pantry (so I couldn't be tempted by it's visual presence). For the first time in a long while, I wasn't trying to fulfill that dream, I was moving in a different direction and all was coming together. I was really proud of myself.
As it occurs all too often, life sends little hiccups into steady plans to veer them ever so slightly off course. This time it was something as simple as an email - harmless, endearing, flattering even, but they were just words. It's funny to think of the magnitude that 173 words can bear once they've started gaining momentum. It was all in the name of honesty...that truth said to free one's soul. I can't speak for him, but I suppose it did - act as some form of liberation, that is.
I've been somewhat baffled at the ease in which the shackles fell from my timid heart. I tried to guard it. It was a valiant effort, but to no avail. Stupid heart...my stupid, stupid, hopeful heart. It wasn't supposed to leap like that. It wasn't supposed to fall. It certainly wasn't supposed to break (again).
I'm not really experienced in walking away from someone who matches so closely to my ideals. I've never been on this side of the game...the one where I'm not convinced that getting the hell out of dodge is the only right thing to do. It isn't really my decision, though. This time it just hurts, and I wish that there were some 173 words that would free my soul, or at least my mind and heart momentarily.