November 2017 – Echo Park, Los Angeles
‘There’s something strangely comforting about realizing you haven’t been your self for years.
It explains why I let things happen that I wasn’t happy with.
Those things made sense for another person’s life. Not so much for my lice, though.
Remembering who you are and getting back to that person is a whole separate story. The trouble there, also, is she would have grown by now on her own, right? How do I find her again?
I think I’m on my way there, though. The people and things I’m surrounding myself with are feeling more and more right as the days go by. I’m getting farther and farther away from the stranger I became – closer back to the girl I was six years ago.’
This time last year I was avidly avoiding the looming reality and finality of my always-doomed marriage. Incidentally, I was also blossoming professionally and dealing with the pressure of a promotion, running the cast mansion for the once-relevant reality dating show I work on. The end of last summer was all new endings and old beginnings. Being on my own again was comforting in the familiarity.
Late summer has always felt like the time for a new chapter.
I moved to LA in early September six years ago. Six doesn’t seem like a big number on its own. But when it was enough time to have been both married and divorced, and time to be mostly settled within a career…it does feel like a lot of time.
Looking back with honesty on the moment it ultimately ended is hard. Yes, I got out, and that was the goal. But I made him say it. I don’t know exactly why. I was tired of being the one to set things in action. I was afraid he’d argue if I said it first. I didn’t want the blame. I wanted to be done.
And maybe it was hard for me to believe love wouldn’t conquer all. That it can be chipped away, painfully, until it’s gone and you’re sitting in front of your husband praying he says he wants to be done, too.
And then we were. Done. I fled to my parents’ for six weeks with Thea, who has been the best emotional support cat one could be without actual certification and a slew of her own anxieties.
He moved out. I came back. The apartment was torn apart and dirty, gaps left where furniture used to be, metaphorical enough to be absurd. I blew up the air mattress and made the bed. I held Thea and cried.
Now I’m here. The papers filed, nearly, completely, legally done.
Over the last 11 months I’ve slowly rebuilt my life, my apartment, myself. The decision to stay in the apartment we shared together was, at the time, purely survival and rent stability. But in the time since, it’s become more my home and my safe place than it ever was with him.
I can leave chores half done, not done, as long as I want. It’s fucking beautiful.
Having so much time that I’m able to do whatever I want with is something I’m cherishing for as long as I have it.
And emotionally, hopeful.
I have a crush, and there’s nothing that feels quite as hopeful as a crush.
He’s new at work. He’s handsome. He’s aggressively weird but funny. He’s awkward as fuck. And he’s not interested. He’s great.
His disinterest works to my advantage – ultimately – if things go well, do I really want to be with someone again? If things go poorly, do I really want to deal with that? With being sad? With being hurt? It’s best those options just don’t come up.
I leave the office soon to start things at the mansion, though. I think the whiplash of being on set again after so much has changed will very likely knock the thought of this cute boy out of my head.
I’m preparing myself for a carousel of ‘How’s your husband?’s, ‘Oh I’m so sorry to hear that.’s, and ‘Well, good for you!’s. It would be the optimum time to be able to live a chunk of a day through a thirty second montage.
Now is the time to focus on the ‘growing professionally’ part of my goals.
And maybe a lil crush just as a treat.
xo
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