Wednesday, October 15, 2008

Playing nice.

This isn't a rebuttal of my last posting.

This is about making the effort and moving on. Or more precisely, it's a question about moving on. Do I have to make nice, play nice? I make an effort not to be nasty, but I really don't want to be friendly with my ex right now. Am I the only one who thinks I shouldn't have to? My kids are over 18. I just don't want to admit that it makes me entirely too sad to spend time around the man. I don't hate him. I don't want to hate him, which amazes some people. I care what happens to him, but I don't love him like a husband anymore.

I do miss the life I used to have. I miss the belonging and the being part of a family unit, and I would love to find that again. (minus the stretch marks and labor part) I would love to have someone to come home to. Someone who is happy to see me at the end of his day. But back to the other issue.

It breaks my heart to spend time in what used to be my home. To see the things that used to be mine. I can't breathe. It's not about accepting or letting go for the most part. This is more about memories that won't let go of me.

Technically, I can have anything out of the house I want.

What I want most I can't have.

I want to have a place where I feel comfortable. I want a place to call my own. I don't have to own it in a financial sense, but I need it emotionally to be mine. I think that's why they say that "you can't go home again." It's not that Home changed so much. It's that your psyche redefined what home should be or feel like or offer you when you move out on your own and make a life separate from your parents. Their home will always be that nostalgic place where you turn when you need a safe place to go. A place to regroup and get back on your feet. Is this why women always run home to Mother when they have issues? Probably, but I think it's more that Mom kissed away every boo-boo when we were small, and it's just not fair that real life steals away the magic from her kiss.

I could use one right now.

I am resisting with all my might the urge to run home, and "reboot" so to speak. I don't want to be that person. I want to be stronger than that. I know that most of me is. But the part that isn't is really having a hard time getting up in the morning. Figuratively at least. The truth of it is I'm keeping as busy as my body can handle, to avoid thinking about it. Who knew that sheer exhaustion would be such a balm for a wounded soul?

I'm not as pathetic as that sounded. I'm still me. I hope. I have faith in the friends I hold dear in my heart, that they would tell me if I wasn't. While they are being sweet enough to excuse the bitchy, whiny moments, and to let me try and find my own way, they really would kick me back towards the track if I got too off course.

Sadly it took a complete upheaval of my life, for that to become crystal clear to me.

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