thoughts on a rainy fall day

My husband wants me to write, so that is what I am doing. I am writing. I am writing nothing, but I am writing, and that is the goal. Right? That’s what I think, but this feels… so… useless.

He wants to see more from me, more of me, but I haven’t been able to see or hear or understand anything from or of myself in so long, in three years so long.

So much can change in three years, you know? I’ve gone from depressed and lonely with only two friends to completely satisfied with only having myself as company, from getting a diploma to getting an engagement ring to getting married and moving four times in the period of 5 years; and it’s a lot, you know? A lot of instability, and I feel like I have unrooted myself from what I used to be and although I miss her and I feel like I’ve let her go and like I’ve become someone new and someone unrecognizable yet knowable, I’m still undone.

I still have loose threads and missing pieces, and I think that, honestly, they are down in a vent somewhere, cut off and lost from me for the rest of my life. And what’s hard is not the understanding, no, not the understanding, but the connection of heart to mind, mine, that those pieces of me weren’t THAT important, that they were pieces of me that were okay to lose.

That’s what’s hard, recognizing that God took them away for a reason, and that today I am made much better for letting go of those things, for looking to the brand new, even though I feel so very old. I want to be timeless, but I feel like a beat-down, broken-up, rusty car, one second, one moment away from completely never being usable again.

it’s amazing what all can come out when I just let myself let it out, isn’t it?