Why, you may wonder?
This weekend I'm packing up all of my stuff and moving it out of Elle's apartment.
Not ours, anymore.
Was it ever?
I don't live there anymore. I haven't for awhile and it's better that I don't. Of course.
The fact that this is what my weekend will be, that this weekend I will be packing my self out of that space where so much happened, where so much was gained, and lost, has rattled me. I feel awful. Depressed. I think I'm dehydrated. I feel fuzzy and sad and anxious and lonely and also ready for it to just be done.
I feel out of sorts and like I don't understand what my life is. Why is this my life? How is this my life? I feel completely out of control and terrified. I also know that I did the best I could (whatever that means, whatever that's worth). That this needs to happen. Needed to happen. I know all of that.
I know that I have capital-g-capital-t Good Things happening, too. And I should be, and am, really fucking grateful for a lot of things, for what I have, even as I feel so utterly, helplessly unmoored. I am grateful.
But I'm mad. I'm mad that everything is so hard and that at the end of the day you always have to deal with your shit alone. No matter how much love you have, how many people are supporting you, how many things are good.
Still, at the end of the day only you can deal with your shit. Only you can lie in the bed you've made.
And it all hurts.
Even the good, right things hurt?
Ain't that a kick in the pants.