I have been suffering the slow healing process of a broken heart. Funny how an emotional wound like this can feel just like a real one, post-op. It happened at the end of May, but since then we have been doing the break up tango, and all it does is put tension at the scabs.
I'm leaving town for a road trip that will last me over two months. I will write about it later, and there are many reasons, but the question has been brought up, is it because of him?
My first, second and third thought is no. But I woke up this morning and felt the old pain coming back and I need to write it out. Or walk off the pain, as coaches in football say.
I'm tired of the B.S. of this town and industry I work in. I'm tired of my family and their constant dysfunction I have to combat with my paltry mind-armor. I'm tired of not having a steady job and hustling for ones I don't even want.
And now that I'm super single for the first time, it has given me a new vantage point to look at my world from. Turns out I've always looked at the world from the where my significant other has stood, be it in the canyons, the valleys or the local watering hole.
As the haze of my vulnerability has lifted, I see now that MY vantage point is on a beautiful grassy hill overlooking my city, and I do not like what I see. So I pack my bags to go.
But I wake up today and that pain is there. What was once a great avalanche of sorrow is now summed up in an annoying itchy stitched up wound half way to healing. So I am not leaving because of him. And I don't even know if it will make it easier or harder to heal being away from him. And the fear of losing what we still have, our odd formed post-op friendship, is there. And what of another girl he might call his own when I come back? I accept this, but it would be a strange homecoming.
But that is about the sum of my worry. Beyond that, I am glad to get away. To take care of myself only, to appreciate this life-long love affair I am having with myself.
So I take pride in shelving my hurt, putting it in its place, along side all the other pieces of me either understood on their shelves, or scattered around the room of my mind, still waiting to be picked up.
It's spring cleaning time. Even if it is fall. I raise my glass to myself, finally, instead of always to someone else.