I’ve had such a rough couple of days. Hysteroscopy on Wednesday, fight with soon to be ex wife Thursday, fight again Friday, fight again today, but hey, the pathology report says the tissue sample is benign.
I’m walking on eggshells but it’s benign and thank fuck because that might have been the weight that broke the eggshells enough to pierce the soft skin. I used to have callouses, I could prance on eggshells all day, and then I left home.
I healed, and trusted, and opened my heart and now I’m worried that I’m beginning to miss the callouses.
She left me a year ago, happy birthday, on my birthday, and my birthday has come around again without any legal closure to the coffin holding our marriage. We still share a bedroom, a bed, when she’s home. She resents me. I’m starting to resent her. But the rent is too damn high and I have so little energy to spend, maybe I can drift apart gently, like we swore we’d do last year when she left me.
Another tattoo, another solemn promise to love myself inked into my skin and this time, I swear it’ll take and I’ll remember and won’t cry over a woman who resents me.
I like to lie to myself like that.
It makes a good narrative.
This time I’ll change, this time I’ll remember, but it’s too late for me, I healed and I remembered that to allow others to know us and to know them in return is to be loved.
I’ll cry about this again.
And over and over because the thing about healing it that it’s harder to rebreak the broken bone along the same fracture pattern.
The healing makes it stronger.
The eggshells aren’t supposed to be on the floor.
I’m sweeping them up and putting them away where they belong to compost themselves into rich nutrients for more new growth.
No one is coming to save me, I don’t need saving, I save myself.
Every day, I save myself.
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