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Even writing this makes me to cry. I am going to be feeling my feelings this week for sure and will need to reach out of course. I am doing something scary - coming way home from exile with a wound yet less weight. Prodigal Daughter - and to the hottest least hip place in my pantheon of tried places - but and yet a part of me is again drawn to this land of my birth. It's moving. Moving is hard. It's asking permission. It's communicating. It's relinquishing control. It's faith.
It's so complicated.
it's so simple.
all the awkward nests of sober discourse with my mother by a hospital bed and my anxious sister concurrent with my own anxious four-year-old self. I've sent the thank you cards. Now, the plan must be put in action. I'll be moving in the most expensive, hottest time. Sitting on my words.
always worried about the health and wellness of my cat.
the move will be right around the corner.
I have switched to one of the few things that I've kept that trigger "ANDREW" to me. this one sort of whispers but it's a scorpio (he had bought a taurus) coffee mug he came home from target and surprised me with. Later, I learned he allowed the mother to pay for any extra stuff for the kids. He was a man that didn't talk/communicate much but that last night is like a PTSD I need to purge. or compartmentalize forever.
Moving here, it was chance, exile, different. Moving back, it's death waiting to die - a way station towards... but it's going to be what it's going to be. none of us are guaranteed five minutes of time. I'm sure I haven't shed all the tears I'll shed for Andrew/mark, and I tore those - well I tore that first marriage apart like a savage gremlin. The second marriage, it struck me like a rocket the thought of divorce. I had thought we were in it for the death part.
it is what it is.
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