The “first day” mantra treated me well again this morning. I was lying in bed, staring at my sunrise lamp, waiting for the alarm to go off. I was making up excuses about why I couldn’t run, why it was okay to skip class, why I didn’t need to get up until it was time for work. But instead I said, “You don’t want to miss your first day of marathon training, do you?” That, and I promised myself a cigarette.

My aunt sent me a text today about keeping up the fight. How it’s hard for all of us sometimes, but we have to keep going. That’s the only option we really have. I needed that reminder and I got it.

I have been asked for patience.

All the gears squeal and fight against themselves. The flood. Anger and desperation and hopelessness. “Not right now,” has got to be the hardest thing for me to hear. I live entirely on split-second and often horrible decisions. I am made of nows and nevers. But I was asked for patience. And I understand why it’s needed, why it’s vital. I understand in waves. All the instances my friends, my partners have asked for something as simple as a little bit of time.

I’m launched back to the night I made Mason ask me for a divorce even though he wasn’t ready. To filing the paperwork neither of us was sure about. Standing in front of a judge still not convinced I was doing the right thing, but resting easy knowing at least I was doing something.

Always have to be doing something.

But this time I recognize it. This time I know it’s a trip-up. A weak point. This time I can teach myself to fall into the lull of waiting. Uncertainty is not a thing we have to embrace enthusiastically, but we must wrap our arms around it and carry it with us regardless. And I’m in a place where I can practice doing that. Where I can wait.

I’m waiting.



Stuck on You – HFF” © Nana B Agyei, 2010. CC BY 2.0.

I can’t write lately.

My moods are improving. Things seem to be leveling out. Medication doses stabilizing. Hormonal birth control abandoned. Therapy twice a week.

But I sit down to write and…

It’s like I’m all dried up. All talked out. Like everything has been scoped out from every angle and I have nothing left to say about it.

Instead, I want to take long walks to nowhere. Afternoon naps. Want to find a hobby, an escape that has nothing to do with words.

Or maybe I just feel stuck in general. We’re floating in that place between leaving and staying. Deposit down for a new place hundreds of miles away, but no move-in date.

My fingers itch to start putting things in cardboard boxes, to sign up for yoga classes I can walk to from our new apartment. To set up my new office and establish a new routine.

But instead I have to sit by the phone and hope our new manager will call and say, “Construction will be done next week, for sure. Move in whenever you’re ready!”

I float. Feeling like I already soaked up everything I can from this soil, but unable to leave.

Ever hopeful that maybe when we do things will start making sense again. That words will form into sentences. That my vision won’t blur around the edges. That I won’t feel like crying for no fucking reason. That it will make a difference.