There are so many things I want to say, so many thoughts that pop up throughout the day that I want to write down and elaborate on. I want to sit down with a notebook and write it all out. I want to sit across a dinner table with my favorite person and talk about today and yesterday and tomorrow, but it’s not that easy. It’s not easy to write, not easy to talk. It’s not easy to make sense of things right now, really, and I’ve already written enough vague and sad blog posts that hint at, but don’t explain, my situation and I don’t know what else to say, other than that love is a mother fucker.
So I haven’t been writing. Not letters, not journals, not anything, other than an occasional long-winded, emotionally fraught text message. They don’t help, though.
My problem is I’m a dreamer and a fixer. I fix things. I fix wobbly tables at brunch. I fix broken shelves. I fix lawn mowers and door locks and all sorts of practical and personal problems, unless they’re math problems because math, like love, is a mother fucker. And I dream. I expect. I concoct the perfect scenario, with flowers and apologies and a few graceful tears and hugs and forehead kisses and I dream up unexpected homecomings and all the ways this could get better, the different scenarios that could lead us back to the best parts.
But things like this – tricky love shit – can’t be fixed with nails and I can’t dream myself out of this reality, no matter how much time I spend trying.
So I’m trying to be here. I’m trying to understand, trying to be the best version of myself, trying to wrap my head around something that seems unimaginable. I’m trying so fucking hard and I’ve moved backward, not forward. Progress was made and then, on a Saturday afternoon, it collapsed. I haven’t fixed anything. I haven’t dreamed anything away, and no amount of effort on my part to be present has gotten me any bit of relief or progress and I don’t know what to do.
That’s the worst of it, that I don’t know what to do.
I guess, at this point, the only thing I can do is wait and hope, hope that this thing fixes itself in the ways that I can’t and wait for the much-hoped for moment, when the fuzzy parts become clear and we get to be us again.