I am sitting here in my too-muchness.
Did you know this was going to happen? Did you see the wave of rolling regret before it crashed at my feet? Is that why you go to ground? Last night I went to bed smiling. I was triumphant. I was sage-like. I was wise. I was the woman who dug deep and singlehandely pulled out my heart barely beating and bruised and held it in front of your eyes. I showed you my scars, pointing to them with calm and non-trembling hands. You did this. And this. And this. I showed you until you cried real tears that I was sure would either never come or that I wouldn’t believe if they did. You cried and I cried and then we laughed because the crying was too much to bear.
All day I have preached compassion to skeptical hearts. Like I was some kind of mystical goddess who had suddenly unlocked the secret to ending the world’s sadness. I was high on the scent of possibility, giddy with decisions that surely meant I had evolved. I waited for the medal to be placed around my neck, the handshake that ensured my place amongst legends.
Surely they would build statues in my likeness and sing songs in my honour.
I would be dressed in white and gold and I would be redeemed. After all – I had done The Work and then I returned, benevolent. Compassionate. Saintly.
And now you are nowhere to be found and my newfound faith is being severely tested. I feel the shift in my chest. I write a message. And then another. And then, another – as if I could somehow nonchalantly laugh off my thinly veiled attempts at making sure you weren’t going to run again.
I know the space is imperative. I distract myself with tea and notebooks and resist the urge to check my messages for the fourteenth time.
Was this how it went down last time?
How do I do this?
I had faith that you wouldn’t hurt me again – but do I have faith in myself?
I bite my nails and try not to imagine the worst.