Going to Work in Tall Buildings

30 May

Every time something sort of bad happens to me, I square my shoulders and say to myself, “There’s nothing you can do to me that hasn’t already been done.”

And truly, unless I am faced with a particularly freak accident or a straight up psychopath, this is the truth. This truth lies in my soft, lovely life and all the weird shit that has gone down in it.

Here in the leaner hours of the morning, I am less confident. I am weepy in my blue nightgown, and I just feel so down, you guys. I feel so fucking lonely sometimes that my heart trips on the carpet. And that has to be okay. And what’s left of my shattered heart just aches. And that has to be okay. What other option is there? I can’t retire to my parent’s attic and wear white like Emily Dickinson. My parents have no attic. I tend to stain white clothing.

I have scoured the stars for what I am supposed to be doing, who I am supposed to be with. And I still just don’t understand.

I have to accept that all the things I flagrantly thought would be mine, may never be. I’m 29 years old, guys, and I may not ever have a baby. That’s a goddamn shame, because I want the choice. I was raised in white privilege and so now I think I deserve a choice about how my life turns out. I’ve worked hard my whole life and I want the fucking choice. But tonight, it seems that the choice up and left. And tomorrow, sweet Jesus, maybe things will seem much different.

My sorrow is not about the man who used to be my husband, but about the things that might have been. I feel so shiftless and out of place. I want what I was promised. I want to know that everything is going to be okay.

Because there comes a point when you used to be all, life is so fucked up and then it’s other people are so fucked up and now it’s 1:04 am and I’m checking to see how much tattooed eyeliner costs and  I can’t get a decent man to go on a second date with me and then it’s this: I am so fucked up. 

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