I made it almost to 1 pm today. So that's promising, but now here I am at my desk, feeling my chest constrict. Succumbing when I ought to be sucking it up. Failure.
This is so much bigger than boys (because they are not men) and drama and the fear of dying alone. Those are just extra questions, part of all that is unresolved in my heart, and I am trying to practice a Rilkean patience. This much I know. No matter how much it hurts, this too shall pass. What matters now is what I do with me, the woman I live with, for better or for worse, for the rest of my life.
It is a beautiful day, though it feels for all the world like the first of fall. Freezing in a turtleneck in May—figures.
I don't know which is worse: feeling like I won't make it through the week, or knowing damn well that I will. Day by excruciating day.
It is not this one. Or that one. Not today. Not this particular rejection nor this particular pain. It is the pattern. The serial effect.
Bear with me, y'all. We all know I'll be rolling in begonias before we know it, cresting high and happy into something else. But for now, it is no fun waking up in a world where so many people go about their business indifferent to the impact their rampant douchebaggery will have on the heads and hearts of others.