My my my my my sensi-shoes.

Yesterday I talked about being brave, and how it took me quite a while to realize it’s actually part of who I am. In contrast, I have always known I was sensitive. Despite my love of colorful language and screaming along with power ballads, I’m just a little baby duckling in women’s clothing (alright, angsty teenage nerd clothing. Whatever.). I was in high school before I mastered being able to read aloud without crying. The word “retard” causes me physical pain. (I WANT TO DELETE THAT SENTENCE SO BAD.) I lose my shizz over The Notebook every single time I watch it.

Even if I hadn’t caught on myself, I’ve been told numerous times. I’m pretty sure it’s come up at least once with everyone I’ve dated. Sometimes it’s in an, “awww, the poor wittle duckwing” kind of way. But usually, it’s accompanied by a speech on how this makes me a useless human.

That’s the thing about being strong AND sensitive, though. I know when to do which, how to be comfortable in my own skin, and when to just tell people to go fuck themselves. My sensitivity is one of my greatest strengths. It allows me to connect to people. Feeling someone’s pain is a great motivator. It keeps me fighting when I want to give up. Because whatever is hurting me, is hurting someone else, too. Though I try not to cross over into full blown martyrdom, I’ll do whatever I can not to see someone hurt.

It also helps me find something to relate to, even with people I disagree with. Remember that they’re human, too. While I do have my limits and will indeed tell someone to kiss my shiny metal ass, it’s not right off the bat (usually. These fucking Trump supporters are testing me, though.). For the most part, I can have reasonable, respectful conversations with people on opposite sides of the topic.

However, there was a brief time that I wasn’t this way. My “freeze” instinct had fully taken over, and for months, nothing bothered me. Nothing made me happy, either. I was completely numb. Not like “Oh, I’m just a little off today”. More like, “I’m not completely convinced I’m actually a real person anymore, and should probably be put on a watch list.” I cannot describe to you how incredibly terrifying that was. Partly because I’ve blocked a lot of it out. But I can tell you for 100% certainty that given the choice, (which I was! So… really. 100%) I will take being a sensi-shoe wearing crybaby any day of the week.

There’s a lot of talk of the world becoming too sensitive nowadays. We’re not. We’re becoming more human. More empathetic. More compassionate. Microaggressions are a thing. Casual racism is a thing. Rape culture, victim blaming, white privilege, rampant misogyny… all things. They all need paid attention to, and stopped. Because we’re all people deserving of respect. Even if you don’t get offended by the same things, it’s not unreasonable to ask that you understand that someone else does. Then, take it a step further and stop whatever it is. Prevent it from happening again. Stand up against it. Care for one another. We’re all in this together, end of story.

If you need any pointers, I’m happy to help. Or to watch The Notebook with you. I can’t help it (nor would I want to), I just fucking love that shit.

 

I’m only brave when I have to be.

The first time someone told me they admired my strength, I was 15. It was after the communion service at church camp, which was always a moving ceremony. This year, the planning team had us stand silently on a hill, with our arms spread wide, eyes closed, as they wandered around “spitting” on us (they really just flicked water on our foreheads and made the noise simultaneously) and calling us names. The point was to get a new perspective on the crucifixion, and it had quite the impact on me. One of the planning crew, an upperclassman, came up to me afterwards and told me that she was moved by how I stood there, perfectly still, tears running down my face. “You weren’t ashamed,” she said. “You didn’t try to hide that you were crying, and you never made a sound. You just stood there, head held high. You’re so strong.” I was still trying to overcome my shock that she knew my name, finally managed to smile and thank her quickly before scurrying away.

When other people told me as I got older, I usually assumed they were talking about someone else. I didn’t correct them, I just smiled appreciatively while trying to remember who I was next to in whatever situation they were citing that they might have me confused with. I’m not strong. I don’t save the day, I’m not a hero, I’ve never pulled a car off someone or saved them from an oncoming train. I don’t stand up for myself often, I don’t have unwavering morals that I will die defending, I can’t even tell you where I want to fucking eat most of the time. I’m just… me.

Then, a line in a song* broke through my stubborn wall of self-depreciating thoughts. “Tell me how do broken hearts get strong?” The first time I heard it, I immediately thought, “You just go on.” Wait… I know an answer to this? But… so that means… I am… strong?

Holy fuckballs.

Maybe being strong isn’t about how much you can carry, or being the bravest. Maybe it’s about continuing, when you really don’t want to. Or recognizing when it’s better to scrap it and try a new path, even when that thought is more terrifying than staying. It’s just… going. Slowly, sometimes, and usually with a bit of fear. But still. Going. Doing. Carrying on.

It doesn’t mean suffering in silence, either. Though that image is what started this whole bit of self-discovery, I’ve since learned that it’s even tougher to ask for help than it is to silently bear my crosses. In this lesson, tougher usually seems to equate to more worthwhile. Though it’s true that I’m hardly ever silent, I’m not always saying things that have a lot of meaning. That opens a person up to being vulnerable. As it turns out though, I already was. When I stand up and say what I mean, no matter the consequences, I have more control over just how vulnerable.

My son was having an issue with school a couple weeks ago. When we began talking about what he needed to do to fix it, he started shutting down and I could see him telling himself he couldn’t do this, that he wasn’t capable.

“Hey,” I told him, “this is going to suck, probably, but you can do it. Know how I know? Because you’re strong. Even when you don’t want to, you keep going. You do what has to be done, and you always come through the other side. Know why I can see it? Because I’m strong, too. This is who we are.”

I might not rush into a burning building anytime soon. I can’t lift things over 9 pounds over my head. I’m not heading up any committees to actively change the world, and I probably won’t be giving any noteworthy speeches in a town square in the near future. But I will keep going. I know I’ll make it. Because this once broken heart has made it through every single thing life has thrown so far, and there’s no way we’re stopping now.

 

 

 

 

 

*For anyone wondering, the song is “Drink You Gone” off Ingrid Michaelson’s newest album, It Doesn’t Have to Make Sense. It’s a lovely song… other than the line “… just like you ate my heart out.” which makes me slightly uncomfortable. But that’s a me thing. Contextually, the line makes perfect sense.

Domestic Goddess I am Not.

I have several exes who can tell you that I am not a natural homemaker. I didn’t come stock with domestic tendencies, I don’t run a tight ship, and I am not someone that would be described as “neat and tidy” ever. I don’t live in total squalor, I just don’t make cleaning my house as much of a priority as some might.

When I do clean, I mostly just straighten.Push the junk to the edges to make the middle look clean, like veggies on a 6 year old’s plate. I’m a big fan of cramming things inside other things and putting a pretty sheet on top of it to hide the whole mess. Not so shockingly, this is how I tend to deal with emotional issues, too. I put them in little boxes to be gone through later, I straighten them out enough to pass for having my shit together, and I cover them up with a new hairstyle and fun earrings. (Don’t ever underestimate the power of fancy, shiny earrings.)

Turns out, this isn’t the best long term plan for either dwelling. The clutter eventually overpowers us all. (There’s a Shel Silverstein poem about this, actually. Ok, maybe Sarah Cynthia Silvia Stout isn’t about this exact thing, but… close.)

The time came to clean house. First, I chose to focus on my emotional abode. I unpacked all the crap I had crammed away into random spaces, and spread it all out on the floor. I took inventory, got rid of what I could, and reorganized the rest with handy little labels. Really, that makes it sound almost fun, when in reality, it was a whole lot of me sitting on my couch staring at the wall, writing angry letters, and bursting into tears over the death of my fantasy TV alien dad (I can’t be the only one that wished they were part Vulcan, can I?). It’s a lot of behind-the-scenes work, and it’s fucking exhausting. It’s making a point to think about things I intentionally block out, saying out loud things I’ve never told anyone before, and confronting people I’ve been terrified of since age 4. (Even if that confrontation comes in the form of a letter that will never be sent, it’s a start.) One day, it might also be telling my story. But today isn’t that day, so vague hints are all there is for now.

Re-shelving what remains doesn’t mean I’m done with it forever. It just means I’ve looked at it, I was honest about how I felt about it, and I put it where it belonged instead of just sweeping it under the rug. I could get rid of it later, but for now, it’s too painful to part with.

While all of this was happening, my actual house suffered a bit more than usual. It was taking all the energy I had to appear in public for 40 hours a week, masquerading as a functioning adult, and keep a teenager from starving to death. I had nothing left for my friends, I wasn’t really showing up for the rest of my family, so I definitely had no energy for things like picking up my shoes. (And seriously. I have a lot of shoes.) At first, I felt guilty. Partly, because that’s like breathing for me, I’m pretty sure most things are somehow the result of my negligence. But also because I thought I was being a terrible role model for my son. However, there was something else he needed to see. That we have to take care of ourselves, and sometimes that means letting ourselves be lazy. Like everything, there’s boundaries, and healthy limits, but sometimes, we just need to watch 3 hours of The Big Bang Theory in our sweatpants while eating Taco Bell, and that’s perfectly fine. Even if it’s 3 nights a week instead of just once in a while. Everyone needs compassion and understanding, and we need it from ourselves most of all. Also, I asked him for help. That’s not an easy thing for me either, but it’s something I want to try to teach to him. Without going into a lot of detail, I just told him I was tired, and I needed him to pick up a little of my slack, even when it might not be totally fair. Since he’s an amazing human, and I pay him $10 a week, he did it with very little resistance.

Today, I cleaned my kitchen. Not just straightened, scrubbed with a toothbrush. There’s still some major cleaning to do on every front, but I think I’ve got a handle on all of it. If I don’t, that’s ok, too. The multitude of stray shoes will still be there when I’m ready.

This is my fight song. (But don’t sing it at the dinner table.)

I thought as a child that when I became an adult, I would just magically know all the things. That I would suddenly be able to read out loud without crying, I’d figure out how to tell people what I felt, I’d instantly become responsible and confident, and I’d make Thanksgiving dinners. Though I do now have a pretty good handle on all but the turkey roasting, it definitely was not an overnight success story. I had to fuck a whole lotta shit up to get where I am today.

I control what happens to me these days. I alone decide who I am. And I accept full responsibility for my actions. But… it wasn’t always that way. Tiny Me had to learn things from someone. And oh how I did! How to tie my shoes, to duck if a lawn dart is being thrown at your head (and if you can’t duck, goose!) what to do in case of a fire, to always be obedient, how to count to 100, kids are usually lying where as adults are always to be respected, proper techniques for baiting a hook, how to outline the picture in crayon first to make coloring inside the lines easier, and to never, ever say “no”. So many things!

Clearly not all of those are useful as an adult. Truthfully, some of them weren’t as a child, either, but that’s done with. It’s hard to relearn things, though. Some of us are rational thinkers. Logic can be used to find the flaw, it then gets replaced with the correct method, and paths reset. I am not one of these people. I am an emotional thinker. My reactions tell me what to do and where to go. Making people uncomfortable, upsetting adults (which I still don’t consider myself unless I stop to actually think about it) and saying “no” are painful. I have physical memories of what happens when you do those things, and I don’t want them repeated. (Even though rational thought might point out that my dad probably isn’t going to tackle me, sit on me, and while hitting me tell me he’s tired of hearing my opinion anymore, uh, I believe we just went over how “rational thought” and I are more like pen-pals than bffs.)

Sometimes, though, you have to upset that fucking apple cart. Just because something has always been done a certain way, doesn’t at all make it right. I have a son, and I’ll be goddamned if he’s going to be 30 years old and panicking at the thought of having to call the landlord because the hot water heater doesn’t work. But I can’t just tell him, I have to show him. I’m also not trying to pretend this is all me sacrificing myself for him, either. I want this for myself, because I deserve better. I’m not being a martyr and jumping in front of bullets lest someone I care about suffer a grazing shot to the pinky toe. I set rules, and boundaries, and all kinds of fun shit, just for me. It’s actually really exciting.

It’s also incredibly exhausting. Once again, there is no switch. Tiny Me is still huddled up in there, trying to make us invisible whenever the threat of upsetting someone arises. Whispering to me that we’re doing the wrong things, and people won’t like it. It’s a battle. But it’s one I choose, and one I’ll win.

If this current battle had a flag, it would say this:

I’m done keeping other people’s secrets.

 

It would probably also have two giant hands, both flipping the bird on it, just because that’s how I roll. Taking the high road, motherfuckers.

 

I’ll never be perfect, but at least now I’m brave.

It’s finally done. Paperwork has been submitted, signed by a judge, and filed. I carried around a certified copy for two days, just to remind myself it’s over. I’m divorced. For the second time.

There was, of course, one last verbal skirmish with the Butt-Ferret before it was all said and done. I had to file additional paperwork, take some more time off work. But it was beyond worth it. Whatever needed to be done to see that judge’s signature on that page, I was happily volunteering.

During our marriage, especially towards the end, I had no control over my life. What I ate, wore, read, who I talked to, where I went and how I got there, it was all subject to his approval. Or simply handled for me, without my consent. By the end, I was merely showing up to be counted and had no idea what was going on. Most of the time, I was daydreaming about someone noticing my plight and whisking me away to freedom. (At night, I dreamed of watching movies with male friends, and woke up crying because someone being interested in what fucking musical I wanted to see seemed so far from what my reality was.) I had shut down, almost completely. I still put on a good show for friends and family, because if not I’d be accused of being an attention whore, or being insane.

One day, I was taking a shower. I had remembered to lock the door, so I actually got to be alone (My bathing habits were also under constant scrutiny.). I was replaying my favorite scenario where a strong, sweet man rides up on his gleaming steed, steals me right from under Butt-Ferret’s nose, and gallops away. About the third time through, a tiny voice, one I don’t hear often, said as clear as day, “No one is going to save you.” That was it. I lost my shit, and spent the next 10 minutes sobbing on the tub floor.

Then, I got up, dried off, and went about saving myself.

Recently, I ended another relationship. While doing so, I was told that I had now become controlling. It was understandable, given what I’d been through, but in protecting myself against situations like it, I had now become what I fought so hard to get away from.

No.

I control what happens to me. I control what I will accept and what I won’t from a partner. I control what I do, where I go, how I spend my money, who I talk to, what I wear and how I look. I know what my needs are, and I make it clear what I won’t tolerate in my life, or the life of my child. THAT is being independent. That is taking care of my damn self. That is not controlling another person, telling them how to act, think, feel or be. It’s just uncomfortable and unfortunate for others that I know what my needs are and don’t have time to waste on not getting them met. It’s not a character flaw, it’s just part of life.

I no longer need, or even remotely want, to be saved. I got this.

 

I’m like, the most scared person whose alive.

Every Monday night, I go to a friend’s house for dinner, we chat, we laugh, she makes amazing food, and then we watch a horrible show together. Currently, we’re watching Girls. At first, I kinda hated it. It’s only redeeming quality seemed to be that it made me feel a little better about my own overwhelming awkwardness. I may have fallen off a curb for no reason at all last week, but at least I’ve never been stuck in a closet while my cousin has sex with a random a few feet away. Pat on the back to me.

The show is growing on me, though. I have become fond of a few of the characters, and even root for a couple of them now and then. As much as I want to hate the main character and her whiny hipster ways, I just want her to be loved by the weird guy who never wears a fucking shirt. In one of the episodes we watched tonight, there was something he said to her that stuck with me.

In response to his yelling this at her, she says that she does not love herself at all, and she’s scared of everything. My inner self raised a fist in solidarity and shouted “fuck yeah, I got your back.” Then I got to thinking. (And yes, I realize that he’s wearing a shirt here. Maybe “never” was a bit strong.)

I’m always working on loving myself. But I’m too scared to actually do it. It’s like the beginning of most relationships, it starts with the flirty fun part. I’m weirdly obsessed with myself. I stare at my face in the mirror, I find mundane things I do fascinating, I feel the urge to share each thought that enters my head as if it’s some sort of genius idea that needs to be recorded for future generations to marvel at. But once I finally settle down enough to love myself for who I really am (spoiler alert: not a fascinating genius.) I get bored and wander off. Later, I’ll be caught off guard by some funny or sweet thing I do, resume the chase once more, and the cycle continues.

Well, me, it’s time to grow the fuck up. Love isn’t exciting. It’s not shiny and pretty and noteworthy. It’s boring and takes work. Even when it’s just you… and you. Loving yourself means knowing you’re enough. It’s not putting on a good show of it, in hopes that someone else will notice and fall in love with you too. It means not giving two craps who sees all the quirky and adorable things you do, because you enjoy just doing them.

It’s getting past that fun and fancy free beginning, and still wanting to put in effort. It’s caring enough about yourself to make sure that when you do work to catch someone’s eye, it’s for the right reasons. These hardly ever include “needing attention” or “not wanting to be alone”. Honestly, I have absolutely no idea how to find the “right” person, what it feels like, or if it’s even a thing. (If it is, I’m pretty sure it’s not limited to one per person per lifetime.) The more I think about it, the less I care. Nobody can love me like I would, if I’d just give myself the chance.

My cape was at the dry cleaners.

It’s been an interesting couple of weeks. When last we left, our heroine was struggling with reacting to uncomfortable situations appropriately. Let’s review in a bit more detail, shall we?

I went on a date. On paper, everything was good. We had talked extensively beforehand, and there was much clicking to be had. But, trying to focus on reality and not get carried away, I needed the actual date to happen before any real decision making was to be done. Surface-wise, it was great. We talked, we laughed, we shared a basket of bar food. We decided to go watch a movie together, which seemed alright, given the clickiness.

First, he kissed me. Now, I’m no prude, I have kissed a gentleman before. Except this was not gentlemanly. In what I’m sure he thought of as a romantic gesture, he pounced (no really. There was jumping and everything) and attacked my face with a very intense barrage of liplockage. It was painful. Physically, as there was teeth involved (FYI – bad plan for a first kiss.) and somewhat mentally, as I have a personal space bubble, and it was popped quite forcefully. All I could think was, “I thought he claimed to be a feminist?”.

Then, some time later (because unbeknownst to me, the numbness that is my oldest and most hard-to-break coping mechanism was already taking over, and I was totally fine with still being there) we were getting cuddly and I said something sassy. I don’t remember what it was, some snarky comment that I make all the time, I’m sure. His response? A slap to the face, and flirtatious giggling. Again, I’m sure that in his mind, he thought he was ever so coy. I…. thought nothing. Other than “No sudden movements.”. So when he asked me if that was alright, I said “Yep.” and when he asked me if I wanted more, I said “Nope.”. That was it. That’s all I could do. Somewhere in my head, a little voice asked “What just happened? Are we really okay with this?” but it was immediately shushed, and silence resumed.

Upon later reflection in the safety of my once again intact personal bubble, I decided that no, I definitely was not okay with that. Aside from my hatred for domestic violence, WHO THE FUCK DOES THAT ON A FIRST FUCKING DATE?!? WHAT IN THE GREAT GREEN FUCK WAS THAT?? ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

Anger set in. At him, for being a tool, but mostly at myself, for doing nothing about it. In his head, that ended on a good note, and he chalked that up as a successful date, surely to be the first of many. Me? I just wanted to vomit. How could I just sit there? Why didn’t I say anything? What is wrong with me?

As it turns out, nothing. Every human has a flight, fight or freeze response to shock. More often than not, mine is freeze. That’s just how I’m programmed, it’s not a flaw or failure. I just need to allow myself to resume normal thinking, and reflect on the situation from a safe distance. When I do, if I’m not alright with it, that’s perfectly fine. That’s all the justification there needs to be for me to walk away from something.

So I did, and I feel much better. Yay me.

Then, yesterday, the inevitable happened. A friend informed me that my ex is dating someone new. There were even pictures accompanying this news. I looked at their happy faces, at her pretty hair, and I felt nothing.

This time, though, it was a different kind of nothing. It was a relieved emptiness, knowing that these people have no affect on my life. I don’t need him to be miserable, and I don’t care if he’s happy. I don’t despise this woman who took my place, nor do I feel like warning her of what could be in store.

I made my choice. I chose the life I now lead, in this little apartment with this adorable boy, the two of us making our own way in a crazy ass world. Sometimes we’re broke, and have to eat terrible concoctions of cheap food, because there’s only one person to pay all the bills. Sometimes we have no one to do the heavy lifting, or the nasty chores we don’t want to do. Sometimes, we feel a little alone. But there is not one day in the whole lot that I ever wish I had chosen differently.

Nowhere Girl

I am not just who I am right now. I’m also the shy girl I was at 5, who dreamed of being a ballerina, but was too scared to dance in front of her own mother. I am the angsty 18 year old, who had dreams and plans and potential, that were all changed in an instant. I’m the brand new mom who is terrified and just discovering what true, unconditional love really means. Sometimes, I’m even a me that I haven’t met yet, who is older, wiser, and much calmer.

But there’s always one I forget. There was once a little girl who was so scared, so hurt, that she made herself invisible. She said everything was okay, she told everyone they were right, she never had an opinion that might oppose another, and she tried to be as small and as quiet as she could, hoping to disappear altogether. She didn’t know how to deal with the terrible things that happened, so she pretended they didn’t. She locked herself away, and dreamed of being someone else. Anyone else.

I’m an adult now, and though it’s been a process, I have better skills and tools for life’s difficulties. But, every once in a while, if something happens a certain way, if there are reminders I wasn’t expecting, I find myself reverting back to this. I say I’m alright with things I’m not. I agree with everything someone says. I roll with the punches, and I do what I’m told. I do anything I can to avoid any discomfort on their part, because I see it as them being angry with me. I want to please them, because I am afraid. It’s quite dangerous, and more than a little frightening. That at this point, a person, a situation, a random scent, can still pull me back there so quickly, and I don’t even notice right away.

Eventually, though, I catch on. Then I get angry. Not just about whatever incident caused this, but a protective anger, over my former self. If someone had just helped her, if they just listened… but the time for “what ifs” are over. Now, we pick ourselves up, and we deal with it face to face.

Maybe I’ll never be “fixed”. But I’ve always been whole. I just need to give space to all the pieces. Even the invisible one.

Decisions, decisions.

Now that I’ve definitely made it through to the other side, I can safely talk about Bad Decision Weekend. Here’s the deal. The anniversary of my first marriage is May 22nd, and the anniversary of my second is May 26th. Though there is 9 years in between, the dates being so close together creates what could easily become a long weekend surrounded by depression and regret. But these are not the only bad decisions I’ve ever made. This ain’t my first rodeo, and I don’t give up that easily.

The weekend’s title is mostly a joke. At the time, I thought each marriage was the best decision I’d ever made, and I entered into both of them with bright eyes, full of love and wonder. I look the same way going into the cheese aisle at grocery stores, though. Not every ticket is a winner.

I decided instead to put a positive spin on it. Celebrate the days for something new. Applaud myself for making good decisions, no matter how small. Making them at all is actually really difficult for me, no matter the context. It can be anything from where I want to eat (THE BANE OF MY FUCKING EXISTENCE! GOOD LORD!) to whether or not I like one shade of purple better than the other, and I instantly create a mental block that wouldn’t allow me to tell you my opinion even if I did have one. So I decided to take it easy on myself, and acknowledge my progress. No matter what, I wasn’t going to feel guilty (as long as nobody was hurt by my decision, that is. Rule numero uno.)

Friday, I decided to post little throwback pictures of Wedding 1. It’s more of a fun memory than anything else at this point, and seeing the younger versions of all of us in terrible clothing was cute. Also, my son was our ring bearer, and he was freaking adorable. I also went on a date, and decided to eat a salad. It’s not exciting because I’m trying to be healthy (the beer I washed it down with was proof of that.) it’s that I remembered to order food I can eat with a fork. I have a tiny mouth, and there has been more than one occasion where I ended up wearing more of my food than eating it. Or, better yet, having to use both hands to cram it into my wee maw whilst trying to appear smooth and sophisticated. I also decided that the date would go no further than the planned dinner and movie. Sticking with the schedule takes out the guesswork and accompanying doubt. Easy peasy.

Saturday, I decided to act like an adult. For the first time in my entire life, I had preventative maintenance done on my car. It finally occurred to me that, independent lady that I am, I have no idea how to change a fucking tire. Though I’m sure I could find someone to call in the case that I need one changed, there’s nobody contractually obligated to bail me out of car-related issues within a reasonable traveling distance anymore. Seriously though, I lived off the high of being responsible and buying new tires before I needed them for a good 3 days.

Sunday, I picked a place to eat. By myself. Even without multiple options from someone else to choose from. Also, it was a place neither I or my companion had ever eaten before. Totally new. As if the tires weren’t enough, now I was just getting cocky! And I didn’t stop there! I chose dessert, AND what to watch on TV. I may actually scrap the whole weekend and just make a holiday out of that day alone. The Day Dinner Was Chosen in Less Than Half an Hour. Be prepared for your banks to be closed on this day next year.

By Monday, I was all too close to the dreaded anniversary of Wedding 2. This one was not a fun memory quite yet. There would be no cutesy pictures, no happy stories. It’s too fresh, too raw still. So, I decided to let myself feel that, and be okay with it. With help from both Bridget Jones movies (back to back, no less) I stopped holding it in, toughing it out, or making jokes about it. I let myself just be sad that something I once believed in so much is now gone. It hurts. When Colin Firth hunted down Hugh Grant in Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason to confront him about letting Bridget be arrested for drug smuggling, I cried it all out. For our heroine, who didn’t know what a good man she had til she found herself in a Thai prison, for the little girl I once was who thought (twice) that she had found such a Prince Charming, and for the woman I am now, who can take care of herself, but secretly wants someone to punch a dude in the face on her behalf every now and then.

The actual anniversary was Tuesday, and as I had previously decided to take the day off work, I then chose to go shopping. I know, how cliche. But there’s a reason for that, it friggin’ works. Except that I almost turned around halfway to the outlet mall, because I felt guilty. Then I remembered the year I spent looking over my shoulder at every checkout line, trying to figure out how I would justify my spending on the ride home, and the panic attack I nearly had over buying an unplanned sponge. (That fucking sponge will haunt me forever.) Before I knew it, I was checking out of Journey’s with 2 pairs of overpriced, completely nonsensical shoes, and feeling pretty good about myself.

Though this weekend was actually harder than I thought it would be, or told anyone about, I made it. I never doubted that I would, actually. When I do get around to making a choice, I stick with it. Maybe there are times that I shouldn’t, but in this case, it worked out pretty dang well.

I don’t live here.

I was a weird kid. I came by it quite naturally, I have a whole weird family. We sang patriotic songs together in the car, we took turns forming the letters of the alphabet with our bodies instead of watching TV, and we created an imaginary call center selling Ghostbusters equipment to made-up customers. (We didn’t bust ghosts. We just sold proton packs over the play phone.)

Once, I had a pet plastic egg. His name was Eggbert, and I’d found him during the egg hunt that Easter. He wasn’t the thin, crappy, see-through plastic kind with the little tab connecting the two halves that rips apart within seconds.No, no. He was the good kind. Solid, golden yellow, and smooth. So I stuffed him full of plastic grass, made him a bed out of a Kleenex box, and carried him everywhere. Before bedtime, I’d spin him on the table for exercise. We had a great time, Eggbert and I.

At some point, I realized that having a pet egg does not at all make you awesome. Shamefully, I tucked little Berty in his tissue-lined sanctuary and crammed him in a box so none of my friends (I swear I had them, and they were real, tangible human beings) would discover him. I cried, because I didn’t want to grow up. I just wanted to hang out with a fucking Easter egg.

Earlier today, I was thinking about how after 3 months, I still don’t really live in my apartment. I haven’t fully unpacked, or decorated. I don’t spend time here if I can find any reason not to. I love the place, but it’s not yet my home.

Home is where your heart is. For your heart to be in one place, you have to leave it behind from time to time. I can’t. I’m not willing to take the risk. What if I’ve chosen the wrong place, yet again, and it’s not safe here? Strong as it can be, the heart is still fragile at the core.

So instead, I pack up my little heart into a cozy space, lined with caution, protection and Kleenex, and cart it around with me. When nobody is watching, I let it ride out on my sleeve, wind whipping through it’s ventricles. Most of the time, though, it stays hidden. Not because I’m ashamed this time, I’m just a little more careful than before. My former ways of jumping from one hurtful moment to the next with nothing but hope and optimism has finally taken it’s toll. I don’t have resentment, I’m not bitter, I just need to heal. I’ve recuperated quite well so far, but there’s still a ways to go. When I get there, I won’t be celebrating by turning around and diving back in the deep end. I’ll stay there, throw some dorky pictures on the walls, and finally make my home.

The pain of losing Eggbert was enough. A girl can only take so much.