What I Am...

What  I am is sitting in my apartment and typing on my computer, eyes heavy from allergies and lack of sleep, body sore from soccer and running and standing eight hours at a time. I am tight-stomach sitting in my parents’ car on the way to a Twins’ game. I am strange dreams and strange sleeping. I am singing out loud in a coffee shop and cutting up my work, reassembling it in an updraft, a second draft, a current, a magic-wire I’ve plugged into, my wi-fi to the universe. I am smiling to earn money. I am smiling because I want to. I am sitting on a bar stool wanting every guy in the room to want me. I am sitting on a bar stool thinking there is not a single guy here that I want. I am looking at a stranger’s brown eyes and dreading my past. I am wanting so badly to see the future.

I am counting markers lining the lake where I run. Counting down the moments until the finish. Counting the couples walking past me. Counting the strollers. The groups of friends playing volleyball. Counting my single female friends— one.

I am worried about what I have said. What I have shared. What I have written. Who sees what I write. Who hears what I say. So many secrets spill out of corners. So much of me tumbles out into the world. So much held back for so long.

What tumbles out? You, of course. Ex-husband. And lately I realize maybe the until-death-do-us-part never even started until I left. You tumble out of my mouth in words, in front of friends, strangers. And it’s not that I want you back—it’s that by losing you I found me.

I guess I should thank you for that.

                                    Words that Still Hurt:

                                    Porn

                                    Addiction

                                    Lies

                                    Good-bye

                                    Family

                                    Babies

                                    Alone

 

What I am is lonely. What I am is scared I will never connect with a good man. Scared there are no good men. Scared I will forever fall into the trap of cute-fun-guys-who-sort-of-adore-me-for-a-time-before-they-ultimately-prove-they-can’t-love-me.

What I am is ashamed. Ashamed of being lonely. Of feeling sadness. Of being weak. Of being vulnerable. Of needing people. Of not being tough enough on my own. I am ashamed to admit I feel sad. Ashamed I can’t find happiness in the world alone. Ashamed I am not enough to keep people in my life. Ashamed that when I set boundaries, people disappear.

What I am is lonely-when-I-see-couples-with-strollers, but at least I am not lonely-when-lying-in-bed-with-my-husband. I am bruised knees and bruised feelings but I am also singing in coffee shops and singing at ball games. I am scared to want a relationship and scared I will never have one again. I am wanting to look at my past and dreading it. I am laughing and I am surviving and I am laughing and evading. I am smiling because I love you and smiling because I want so badly to be loved. I am severed and turning myself inside out. Or maybe just now outgrowing my shell.

You may not see it.

But this is what I am.

And so far I have no regrets.