On Swimming.

I’m not entirely sure where this is going; if there is a point or even a cohesive thought. I just feel like I can’t concentrate on anything right now. Not Twitter, not Facebook, not all the other million thinkless things there are out there in this great big internet world.

My mind feels muffled. Thoughts are blurry and fleeting but the feelings they create are echoing and bouncing off the sides of my brain and I can’t connect a specific thought to its respective feeling. It’s a mess in there.

And I’m not in a bad mood. In fact, much to the surprise of me and anyone who knows what a sloppy, stupid mess I become when the Husb has to leave for days, I feel fine. Yesterday was nice. I was alone, but I appreciated it instead of resented it. I took myself out for a movie, and then came home to have a quiet little evening of “guilty” pleasures. I enjoyed it. I went to bed late, and slept in late and have enjoyed watching my cats be the strange little creatures that they are and – no. No sign of the sloppy, stupid mess I usually am when I’m forced to be home alone for 5 days straight.

I think maybe I’m just buzzing with too many thoughts. Perhaps this is the reemergence of the motivation and inspiration I’ve been desperately needing? The end of the emotional rut that had me stuck on dumb and numb for a little longer than is comfortable or necessary? Maybe it’s just too many thoughts for one mind to handle right now? Whatever the case, they need to be freed…

I never thought I would like sleeping in the same bed with someone. Before I got married I always thought about how inconvenient it would be to always have someone in the same bed; taking up space and sheets and making noise. And while I always laughed at the thought of old traditional couples having two separate beds, sometimes I thought maybe they had the right idea. But I miss his side (plus some) of the bed being taken up by his warmth, his smell. I miss falling asleep to the sound of his breathing; it helps me fall asleep. For some reason as quiet as his breathing is, it manages to drown out all the thoughts in my head that try to keep me awake. I miss that even though we both move to “our side of the bed” we always find some way to keep physical contact; a hand touching a lower back, a foot tucked up against a calf, or backs pressed up against each other.

I listened to a CD today that I haven’t listened to in almost two years. I haven’t listened to it because the last time I listened to it was when the Husb (though we weren’t married then) and I were broken up, and one song in particular left me crying. I wasn’t prepared for the song when I put it in my CD player. When it came on, I was driving away from a friend’s house after rehashing the salty, tear stained details of the break-up. I burst into tears. I had to pull over. So I haven’t listened to the album since. The song still makes me cry, by the way. And if I close my eyes and concentrate a little I can see the street I was driving down when I heard it. And I can remember exactly how broken I felt. And surprisingly, I love the memory. It’s one of the rawest memories I have.

This writing thing scares the crap out of me, have I mentioned that? I mean, I love it. I love that I can write something, something as seemingly pointless as this, and that someone might find a part of them in it. Find inspiration in it. Find comfort in it. That a line I write may be the words they were looking for, a feeling may be the one they thought no one else felt, an idea may be a cleansing breath they so severely needed. That something I write might mean something to someone and cause a spark or a feeling or a thought and make them feel even a little bit better. But I often wonder, “Am I good enough for that? Could my writing ever have that effect?” I doubt. I worry. And I fear that I’ll never reach that mountain top.

I have no regrets in this life. Not a single one. Not even something that on a really bad day I might even consider filing under “Regret.” I just don’t regret. This doesn’t mean my life is filled with delicious adventures or whirlwind romances or envy inducing tales. My reality is a lot more safe than those things. I’ve been a People Pleaser, a Conflict Avoider, a Put Others Before Yourselfer, all to a fault, all for far too long. I said to the Husb, “I don’t know what gets me excited anymore. I want something to be excited about.” And I don’t mean I’m not happy, or loving life, or anything even remotely unhappy. I guess I’m just realizing that after all these years of pleasing others before myself and not causing ripples or stepping on toes or demanding what I want I’ve forgotten what excites me. What pleases me. What things I would want to cause ripples over.

It’s like I’ve spent too much time on the edge of the water, letting others splash about and swim, and have thrown them what they wanted, moved when they wanted and done what has needed to be done to not cause a fuss, and now I realize, I’ve let myself miss out on a lot of splashing and swimming. It’s not too late, is it? To splash and laugh and swim across the water? I hope not.