How do I even write this post? I've stared at the blinking cursor in this blank, white box at least ten times since I wrote my last post in March. How many times can a person say they're sad? How many? And how long can a person be sad before they've worn out their welcome? How long will this be my story, and why does everything hurt so deeply?
How many mindless blog posts could I have written between then and now in an attempt to mask the truth?
I have all this stuff and it doesn't mean anything to me, it just fills the space. Every time I wash a load of towels I cringe because it's just me and why does one person need ten towels anyway? And a great friend of mine gave me my living room set, but it's been almost a year now and I have yet to have a friend over to sit on it. I finally broke down and bought a large bamboo cutting board for my weekly meal preps, which feels stupid and lame because I'm just cooking for myself and who the hell cares if the peppers are diced evenly anyway?
Some days my dog is the only reason I wake up. He has to pee and I have to go to work so I can pay bills in order to continue living a life that doesn't feel authentically mine, like wearing some oversized Goodwill sweater that has holes in it. I feel the draft. I feel the weight of my body in my bed. I feel like I have accomplished something great if I can find clothes that match in the pile on my floor and then there's a whole day to go! There's a whole desk covered with shit to do! There are people who need me to show up and be present and look alive and for god's sake SMILE, girl.
But nobody knows, because I get up and I dress up and I show up and my makeup's done and I snuggle their babies and take their pictures and answer their emails and attend their meetings regardless of the toll it takes. That's the price of living a life that doesn't feel like it belongs to you. You have to keep going no matter what or you'll lose everything. You have to smile when you don't feel like it because your friends have major life things happening and they need you. And you need them. I have myself convinced that if I push myself into situations that are painful-- if I pretend for long enough-- my story will change and one day it won't hurt and I won't be so angry and the season of not-quite-fitting-in-anywhere will be over.
So I wait, and I wonder if this life will swallow me whole, or if one day just maybe the person I am will finally fit inside this threadbare sweater.