Oh loves there are a million and one reasons why I haven’t written a post recently, so I cut the crap and I’m writing instead. Isn’t it funny that we can put so much between us and what we love to do? Why do you think that is? Fear? Anxiety? Groceries? Today was my first day off in a bit and I’ve lulled around in it, cleaned, spoken to a friend who warms my heart, and now I’m here, inhabiting this small space I’ve cut out for myself in the very very enormous internet. How are we? I’ve been a bit sick (probably has something to do with drinking after a long period of time in sobriety). I’ve been busy at work, getting to know work. I’ve been reading and trying to finish the memoir I’m Supposed to Protect You From All This. I need to get some snail mail out. That’s more my to-do list than anything else. Recently I’ve been learning what it means to embrace being alone. I’ve been alone for long bouts of time, but I’ve always struggled with sitting in there. Recently, I’ve been very cautious towards letting anyone hold my heart for too long. If I see a red flag or I’m just not one-hundred percent there, I pull myself out. It’s hard though. That space feels comfortable in the way growing up did: it was scary and confusing, harsh, and abusive, but it was home. Maybe we can redefine home. Maybe home doesn’t have to be a place. Maybe my home ebbs and flows, like the tide. Maybe it just is. Just is. Reminds me of my new favorite last lines from The Orange by Wendy Cope: I love you. I’m glad I exist.
I had sex for the first time in a long time last weekend. It was strange in the way sex is with a stranger. It’s a new space, new spots, an entirely new feeling coexisting between you and this person. It’s raw and made me feel uninhibited and fulfilled. Definitely choosing a bit of freedom in my sex life right now. It feels good to be in a place where my longing doesn’t unspool, but rather lingers, quietly, afresh, ready to be touched.