I have so much to say and yet I have trouble sitting down and writing it all down. My thoughts seem to be clearest in the shower. I guess the steaming hot water has an effect. That and probably the fact that there are no distractions. It's just me. Me and my thoughts.
A lot is going on, even though on the outside it seems like nothing has changed. But in my head, everything is always changing. Or maybe it always has. Unsure. My mind is always swirling. (is that a word?)
I am NOT motivated. I can't bring myself to make a move. I do want to move forward. I AM sick of living in the past. But it seems to follow me. Haunt me. I thought I had overcome it all, but it follows me. I can't escape. Whether it's a stupid song, driving by a certain location or walking a certain path. It follows me. I am still captive. I see what other people have and I know nothing is as it seems, nothing is perfect. But I want that too. I want imperfect. I want something. I deserve to live my own life. A life. Why can't I do anything to actually get me on the path to my future. Why am I stuck. What is blocking me.
Last night, I came home to a piece of paper near my painting supplies. This paper had a list of local shadchanim. Definitely my dad's doing. And then something strange happened. While I was sitting on the floor painting, headphones on, my dad started calling the list. And I could sort of hear what he was saying. I was happy. I knew I would never call them. I was happy. Finally someone else was making decisions for me. Someone cared. Someone was making an effort. I felt loved. I mattered. It was a crazy feeling. So he is doing all the leg work. And I realized something. It's not new, but it hit me again. I just want someone to care. I want him to care. I have always wanted him to care. I can't do this on my own. That's untrue. I can do this on my own. But I don't want to. I want someone to hold my hand. I need him to hold my hand.
And the truth is that I'm scared. I'm petrified to get married again. For so many reasons. My biggest fear is of getting divorced again. I honestly don't think I could survive another divorce. And everyone has heard my joke: "one of us will leave in a body bag before I get divorced again". Yeah, it's a funny joke. But I don't joke. I am being totally serious. I can't commit to someone with that huge fear. Who says I will make smarter decisions the second time. Maybe I'll be so desperate that I will ignore the red flags. Maybe. Maybe a million things.
I'm scared of trusting someone. I'm scared of letting go. Even though, that's really all I want to do. To let go. I'm scared of change. I'm finally comfortable. Settled. I finally like being around myself. I like sleeping in my own bed. I'm finally sleeping. But I know there is so much more to life. I know I have so much to offer. I CAN be a great wife and an even better mother. That is my destiny. That is my dream.
And yet I sit every night, and I drown myself in paint. I surround myself by a non-threatening environment. Surroundings that I control. It's a self contained plan. And I'm finally excited. I have an idea. I come up with a method. I buy the right colors, even splurge on fancy paint brushes. All different textures and styles. It's exciting, it's invigorating. I make a rough draft, I draw it on the canvas. And every night, I put on my headphones and I paint. It's my little world that no one can enter. I love it. I love the process.
The pathetic part is that I almost always hate the painting at the end. I spend months on it. From idea, to plan and then to action. I love the process. And then I hate the end result. I hate it with all my being. It could be this beautiful masterpiece. But I hate it. I hate it because it left me. It abandoned me. It's over. That part of me is over. Over. So now I am in the middle of this huge project. And I reached the point of hate. I'm almost done. It's almost ready. And I am honestly sad. I don't want it to be done.
This painting represents something deeper. I designed this painting to take up an entire wall. I imagined this painting on a living room wall, behind a couch. Or maybe in a dining room, behind candlesticks. Do you know where this painting is going when it's finished. It's going under my bed. Under my rickety, springy bed. It's going to be hidden. There is no wall. It's not my wall. Not my home. This painting will only be hung up in MY home. It's part of my dream for my future. For the life I want. The life I deserve.
And so the headphones go on. The paint brushes come out. A brand new canvas. A new process.