Dear you,
Dear you,
You were supposed to be here for this. I honestly thought you would be here by now. Six and a half years now, and it certainly hasn’t been for lack of trying…and yet—you’re not here. God I wish you were. I consider myself one of the strongest, most resilient people I know, and yet I still feel like this will take me to my breaking point. I know I will get through this—I will face it just like I’ve faced every other difficult thing I’ve had to deal with thus far—but I wish you were here with me, to face this together.
I am having to decide whether to buy the place I have lived in for the past nine years (a decision that was thrust upon me recently), or face moving out in less than two months’ time. This decision, no matter what I decide, puts me in a very tight place financially, and in this current market I feel I’m in a “damned if I do, damned if I don’t” situation. And I hate it. I hate feeling forced into a decision I wasn’t ready for, and frankly, never thought I’d be doing by myself. Do not get me wrong, I am so damn proud by the mere fact that I can. On my own. BUT, that doesn’t mean that I’m not also incredibly sad about it too. Because it means I’m not doing this with you. And maybe that doesn’t make sense to you. I often wonder if men and women imagine their future financial decisions differently. For me, I have always imagined that I simply couldn’t, not by myself anyway, and certainly not in Sacramento, CA. But it is also breaking my heart because, in many ways, if I do buy my place, I fear I am cutting myself off from being able to relocate, should you not live here—and I’m just going to say it, I have thought for a long time now that you aren’t here, because I feel I have probably already met all of the men who I could potentially date by now. And yes, I’m sure someone, somewhere is yelling, “That’s not true!!” laughs Sure, I get that it’s probably not statistically true, but it doesn’t change the fact that it certainly feels true to me. And let’s be honest, a global pandemic certainly didn’t help matters any. dramatic eye roll
Regardless, I wish you were here. I know that all of this, even this, is shaping me into the person I’m supposed to be (and damn it, I’m proud of who that person is so far), but I wish sometimes, especially in the hard times, that you were here to lean on. To tell you how scared I am, to have you listen, to have you hold me. But ultimately, to help make this decision with me.
In your absence I feel I am doing pretty damn well navigating this, all things considered. Unfortunately things took a recent turn, and the opportunity I thought I had to buy my place may be getting swept out from under me now, which, after being a perfect tenant for over nine years feels royally shitty. But I am still moving forward, and I’m still going to try. Just knowing I have already been pre-approved feels so huge. Even if this ultimately isn’t meant for me, I can be, and am, proud of that.
Even though you aren’t here, I don’t feel alone in this, which has honestly gotten me through all of this so far. I feel so much love and support from the people I am blessed to call my family and friends. In all of the ups and downs of this past year (and there have been a lot of those), I have always felt I had people I could turn to, and feel supported by, even if that hasn’t looked like the relationship I’ve always wanted to have. If I think about it all, though—if I zoom out on all of this and the decisions I’ve made in my life so far, I feel like I’m making the absolute best ones I can for me each step of the way.
I was recently driving to work and, while at a stoplight, I noticed a little girl in the car next to me looking over at me and smiling. Looking at her I thought about the woman she must be seeing. I thought about the life that I’ve created, the amazing friendships I have, and all the elements that make me who I am today—that make me, ‘me’—and that I decided were important to who I wanted to be, now, six-and-a-half years later. In that moment I realized that I am creating and living a life to be proud of, and one I would hope might inspire a young girl looking at me from her car window, and maybe even one day my child(ren). And, hopefully, a life that someday aligns with yours. I don’t know if or when it’ll happen, but I hope that it does. And that when you look at me, you will smile too.
Until then, I’m going to keep doing me, navigating this insane thing we call life, as best I can. I have so many things that I hope for, but I find myself just shy of wanting to say them here. Because it’s hard. Hard to still hope for a person, a partner, a relationship that seems to be an almost impossibility. In a world of compromise, of ‘good enough,’ I often feel like I am the hold out. The one who simply isn’t willing to. There are so many reasons not to compromise, but chief among them is because I have already, when I was married. Maybe without meaning to, but I did all the same. I settled for “good enough”— for the comfort and security of it. Even when it wasn’t good, and especially when it was awful. Having gone through that, and having come out the other side, I won’t ever settle again. Having fallen in love in the subsequent years and more than once, I feel equal measures of grief and gratitude for each of the loves I have had. Gratitude that I got to experience that, even if it is mixed with the grief of each loss. All that is to say that you will never have to worry that I have (or will) settle. I may date, and that may mean dating more than one person from now, but I refuse to settle on my person. My partner. You. I just hope that whatever it is that has kept us from being together already, resolves itself soon. Because I am ready. For you. More than ready.
Sometime in May, 1 month later
So, sometimes things just have to fall apart. At least that’s how it feels right now. It has been such a rollercoaster of emotions these past two weeks. I have gone from renter, to potential first-time home buyer, to…well, to someone who now doesn’t know where she will be living in two months’ time. Succinctly put, after nine years, my landlord decided more money was more important than standing by your word. I’m walking away. And as hard and as scary as that is, it feels right. I have felt called lately to truly listen to what my gut is telling me, and the moment I learned my landlord wanted significantly more money, it all became clear that this no longer felt right to me; even if I didn’t know what that would look like, I needed to walk away. And so I am. I know that this will test me, and it will be hard—harder than many may even realize—but it also feels like it’s something I am being called to face. To finally let go of all remnants of my former life, including the skeletons in my proverbial closet, and maybe a very literal attic laughs, that I am finally having to face and put to rest. This is just forcing me to finally deal with it. And I am. One (sometimes painful) day at a time.
In many ways tonight I have thought about what this move will mean, and not so much in some secret hidden meaning, because I am never going to give you some cereal box tag line for how this is a “blessing in disguise,” or some other generic, one-size-fits-all platitude that people who don’t know you are fond of giving, which just ends up sounding disingenuous. insert both a groan and eye roll here What I will tell you is this: It does feel like I’m leaving behind the last remaining thing that tied me to my ex—that life that feels like a lifetime ago—and I feel, or maybe I hope, that this is all opening me up for something better, and (dare I say it, dare I hope it), hopefully a life with you. And as hard as the thought of all of this is, thinking it is opening up my life to a new chapter, to something better, to a life with you one day, well, it makes this pill just a bit easier to swallow. Maybe that’s foolish, but I have to try to see something good in this. Because if I am facing having to drastically uproot my life, potentially liquidating half (or more) of all that I own, and facing all the uncertainty that goes with renting with/from someone again, I have to believe it is all going to be worth it—at least hopefully one day. I have to hope that it will be, and that this is temporary.
End of July to the end of August, 2 to 3 months later…
So, it’s the end of July now, months later from when I began writing this post, and life feels so vastly different than it did then. So many things, in hindsight, that I took for granted that I once had, and that I am still mourning the loss of. I suppose I should start with the simple fact that I didn’t buy my place. In retrospect, it feels like I wasn’t meant to, for so many reasons, but it didn’t make it any easier walking away from it. It was my home, my safe space in a sea of so much uncertainty, and I felt unmoored and lost when I left her. I am still grieving the loss of my home, because that’s what she was. While I found my new place to move into, it doesn’t mean it was automatically “home” for me. It has, frankly, been a nightmare: with a new roommate, two moves as opposed to the typical one, and landlords who, going into it, made me realize I would only be staying there for 6 months, and not a day longer, because of how awful and shitty they were (and have subsequently only gotten somehow worse)…well, I suppose I will summarize it all and just say this: There has only been one other time in my life that was this hard, and it was the period of time following when my ex-husband left me. This…this was just as hard, but in some ways it has felt even harder because I have (lately) felt almost completely alone in it. Almost exactly the same feeling, but for very different reasons—I was experiencing disenfranchised grief, which, if you don’t know this term yet, disenfranchised grief is grieving the loss of something, someone, or, even, of one’s norm, but the loss is not widely acknowledged or recognized as a loss by those outside of it. Examples of this are a relationship ending, divorce, the loss of a job, or, as I’m sure we all can relate to now, the life we knew and had prior to COVID-19. This can leave the individual feeling isolated—like they are alone in their experience of this loss. And for many, this experience can be just as painful as other widely acknowledged losses. The acknowledgement of said loss and the support someone receives in this loss, then, being the key differentiator between grief and disenfranchised grief.
For me this period of my life was particularly painful. And, as I’m typing these words a month later, it admittedly still is. I have felt so unsettled, in so many aspects of my life. In my housing; in my new job; in my love life; in some of my closest friendships, even. This loss of ‘home’ has left me feeling more depressed and lost than I have in years. I haven’t felt a period of my life has been as hard since my ex-husband left seven years ago. With that said, having lost it all, again, I find myself feeling so incredibly grateful for the people who are showing up; who are here. I have gone through hell these past six months, and I can’t but help thinking that at the end of this incredibly fucking hard road, you will be there…at the end of it. Waiting. And not just for me, but for us. To show me just how fucking good this life can be. Even after, or before, or even in the hard shit. To show me how different life can be, with you. I’m not going to lie, I crave and long for it. To have you at the end of it all—at the end of the really hard days, at the end of the really hard talks, the disappointments, but also at the end of all the good and beautiful days and moments, too. I feel like it has been so long, but I know they are there, waiting…and I’m so ready for all of them. With you.
And, maybe, instead…there is gray. I have found myself living in the gray—the unexpected, recently, and I don’t know how else to really speak to it. Other than to say, that life is never what you expect it to be. But it is here. Now, and now, and now. And while I may not have the life I, or others, ever expected, it is a fully lived life.
It’s bizarre to me, writing this, now…because there is a chance, a very real possibility, that I will be in a relationship in the near future. Writing these words, with that being a possibility, it’s hard to not wonder…to hope. And I anticipate these words could be read with you filling in the blanks. The honest truth is, I don’t know. And that’s not to say I don’t see you/him in this way. It’s more because, in this new year/chapter of life, I realize that life isn’t as perfectly organized or structured as I once, maybe, thought it was. Life and love isn’t always, or ever, that black and white. And, maybe, instead…there is gray. I have found myself living in the gray—the unexpected, recently, and I don’t know how else to really speak to it. Other than to say, that life is never what you expect it to be. But it is here. Now, and now, and now. And while I may not have the life I, or others, ever expected, it is a fully lived life. And I know that may not make sense; how is a 38-year-old woman saying this? Here’s what I will say to this: I recently was preparing for a trip, and as we were preparing for takeoff, my thoughts turned where they sometimes do before flying, which to many might sound morbid, but I honestly thought about the “What ifs?” Which all seems to come back to one singular question for me, which is, “If I were to die today, would the people that I love know that I love them?” But I also stopped to ask myself, “If I were to die today, how would I feel about the life I have lived?” And it came to me—I was overwhelmed with how sure I felt about it—I knew that I would be good. Not that I wanted to die, because I certainly don’t, but if I were to, I would die knowing that I had really lived. Fully. And I loved knowing that. And I still do. I am so fucking proud of the life that I have created in the wake of my divorce. I am both nervous and excited about this potential relationship…something I have craved and wanted for so long. But I’m also confident knowing that, no matter what—I am me. And I am going to be okay, even if it returns to being just me again. But I am also confident, because I know that I really (really, really) am ready for this. After so many missteps, and start-stops: I am ready. I know who I am. I know what I have to offer. The love I have to give. But I also know, with all of that—that my scars, my hurts will come right to the surface. And I am so scared to have you see them; but I’m also so ready to work through each of them, with the right person.
I write this in the blind hope that, in the unknowing, there will be beautiful moments too. That I will love again. I will trust someone with my heart, again. And that I will, maybe, know what it is to finally connect with someone, while also having something beautiful, reciprocal, safe, secure and emotionally healthy with them. To truly find a partner.
God, I am so hopeful. Hopeful that this is you. That you and I finally get to be, here and now. But I also write this knowing that I don’t know, I won’t know, and that’s okay too. I write this in the blind hope that, in the unknowing, there will be beautiful moments too. That I will love again. I will trust someone with my heart, again. And that I will, maybe, know what it is to finally connect with someone, while also having something beautiful, reciprocal, safe, secure and emotionally healthy with them. To truly find a partner. (Which would honestly be the first time I’ve had all of that.)
There are so many things that I don’t know. But I do know this: I am here, and I am ready. And here, in the waiting, I am committing this to you: I will try to stop thinking five steps ahead. I will be present—to witness the magic in the here and now. I will try to stop holding things so tightly. And when it finally happens, and you are here: I promise to love you fiercely, wholeheartedly and without abandon; to show you all of me, even the parts I’m ashamed and scared to show you; and to never, ever (god willing and the creek don’t rise) take you, or us for granted.
Love always,
me
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