Today, and yesterday, I found myself feeling disinterested in the work involved in finding a new love. See, I need to go through hell and high water over the next little bit in order to get to the point where I can be near a place with other human beings in it. I have to move, so I can be near to where other human beings are, so that I can actually find one that wants to love me.
And that's the basic problem right now. I'm sitting in the woods, hundreds of miles from any man let alone the right one, and getting older every day without him. I'm robbing him and me of time together.
And every day, I get a little less interested in finding him. Every day I get a little more jaded about whether love can exist in my life, whether I have a place in my house, in my life, for a good man.
And, last night, as I stared up at the exposed beams over my head, I started feeling like maybe I should just throw in the towel. Stay here, live my perfectly wonderful little life without him in it, just become content to be alone. I didn't cry. I'm well past the stage where you cry, now I'm just thoughtful on the subject. It's one of the many steps I find myself taking in the direction of having a heart made of pure stone. And I HAVE to reverse that. For my own good. For the good of the children I may want to have again later on.
I know I don't really want to spend the rest of my life alone. Not really. Especially because I've only got six or so years before my children are all grown up and gone. How much closer to dead would I be without either my children or my love around?
Last night, I knew it was time to take drastic action. I needed to pull out the heavy artillery if I was going to stop myself wandering down the road toward the "I don't need a husband" loner's mountain again.
I pulled something from a drawer, and I tucked it against my chest like a talisman against the encroaching thoughts of giving up.
And this morning, I looked down at my hands when I woke and found it there, I had forgotten about my night time musings, but this morning I remembered and so I slipped it over my head. It was time. This shirt doesn't go with anything I own. It's red, decades old, faded, oversize. It doesn't fit. I've never thrown it out. It sits in my pajamas drawer waiting for a day like this.
The shirt sits softly with the seams down below my shoulders, not like it fit his. It brings to sharp contrast the differences between my own clothes and this shirt. Between my life right now, and the times I knew the man who wore this shirt. The places where it fit him snugly lie loose and flowing on me.
The smell that it no longer has tortures me, reminds me of his damned cheap laundry soap, of the sweet musky male scent of him. The feel of it beneath my skin reminds me of what love feels like when you send it skimming through fingertips, when you imbue every act in your day to day life with love for another person.
This shirt clonks me over the head with memories of dancing on the beach, of lying together on rooftops, of sitting in a diner playing cards and of lying twined together bruised and laughing after tumbling downhill. Of feeling something - love? - so strongly that the urge to fold my arms around his neck and bury my head in his shoulder was uncheckable. And it reminds me of the strong, pure emotions that were once felt toward me. It reminds me of the first worthy man a young, foolish, trusting girl like me ever loved with all my heart. Silly girl.
The shirt floods me with memories, tortures me, but I wear it anyway. It wakes me up. I am a silly girl for forgetting what it reminds me of...
It reminds me that people are worthy of love, and that I should have someone to love. It is proof that I am loveable.
Sometimes you really need to be a silly girl, to throw yourself into something whether it hurts or not. To dive into something hard and dangerous headfirst for the rewards at the end. So, today, I am waking myself up to the idea that there can be real love.