Friday, Jan. 22, 2021 @ 3:44 pm
I don’t know why I’ve stopped writing.
I experience moments of intense beauty, and yet I fail to capture them.
The warmth of his body against mine as we fall asleep after making love in the afternoon.
The snowdrops pushing forth from the cool winter soil in the neighbourhood gardens.
Moving on skis through an arctic landscape, the snow windswept into evocative sastrugi. Completely alone in the harsh alpine. Gliding on pristine powder down a low angle slope. Daring to ski down a couloir, the rocky cliff walls straight up on either side of the narrow, steep chute. I surprise myself and link turns down the double black diamond run.
The strength of my grip as I move up the wall in the climbing gym.
Cycling through the thick forest of the park at night. The clear sky and the moon and the city reflecting in the still waters of the ocean. My hands cold. My face cold. My heart full.
The pandemic, perhaps. The exhaustion of months of this - working from home - and the many more months to come. The news that my vaccine day is likely not until September, at best. Another eight months of this.
I become more introverted. I stay home in the evenings and cook or make soap or simply watch a movie alone under a blanket on the couch with the sliding door cracked open for the cool wash of humid, coastal air.
I trim my own hair. It hardly matters anymore.
I think that I want a dog but am afraid of the commitment.
Russell and I are coming up on two years, and we aren’t living together. Living apart is unconventional, and I struggle to understand why I choose this. I am afraid to move in with him. There - I said it - I’m afraid.
When out walking, I study the children that I pass. I could still have one, I think, though my age is not ideal. But no, I do not want one. What do I want? I am - again, to be honest - I am afraid to have a child. I’m afraid that a child will wreck things, that it will wreck us, that I will resent its intrusion in my life. Children exhaust me, at least the children of my friends do.
There was this thing that happened last week. I told Russell something and his response verged on gaslighting, and I was immediately and intensely triggered. I’d forgotten this feeling, and I can’t believe that I accepted it as an integral part of my former relationship with Daniel. I turned inward and held space for myself. I could see him watching me. I could tell that he knew that he said something wrong. I felt my face crumple as I stared at the floor in disbelief of this happening.
“Hey,” he says. He pulls me close. “It’s OK. I know that you’re having a hard time lately.”
I feel scattered.
Sometimes I am OK. Sometimes I am not OK.
I am scared that I'm going to wake from this dream and find myself scrunched to the far side of the bed, with Daniel laying there on the other side of the bed, his clothes in the closet, his records on the shelf. And that I'll have to do the breaking up thing all over again.
I sometimes think about Peter and wonder if I didn't give things with him enough of a chance. I loved the way that he looked at me. The way that he was ravenous for me.
This is more than I was expecting to write.
Oftentimes, starting is the hardest part.