Anyone Seen My Muse?

I haven't been updating my blog and I'm ashamed. Writing used to come so easy to me. It's why I started this blog, afterall.

While packing up in preparation for my move, I found a small, black moleskin notebook. Just seeing it evoked memories for me. I used to carry it everywhere and scribble down thoughts. Ideas on books, pro and con lists, general bitching and moaning, the typical day-to-day rantings of, well, me.

I hadn't looked inside my little notebook in years - three years to be precise. As I peeled through the pages one-by-one, the evolution of the past years became clear. The first entry in the book was simple, dated December 25, 2004, and said, "It's a beautiful day, and I'm truly blessed." The more I page through, the more I see it. The exhaustion, the frustration, the sadness. On several pages, I see sad, single lines or simple poetry expressing a need to breathe. It was like I was holding my breath in some entries. Even my handwriting became sloppy and nearly unreadable.

The small book chronicled 4 years in my life. Beginning with my second year of marriage, to my life in Florida, the purchase of a house, the selling of a house, the migration to a town up north that I had never laid eyes upon. Each page was filled with the contents of my head - from loving that I was leaving Florida, which I hated, to hating that my husband was becoming more distant, "working" more, not speaking, and acting odd. I knew what was happening. I just didn't have the breath to say anything. I sat back and watched - I watched it all unfold.

I watched his "relationships" grow. First, percocet, then oxycontin, then methadone, all the time "supporting" these relationships with alcohol. I watched as a $150 week alcohol habit and $200 a day pill habit began to form (this, of course, I didn't realize for a long while). I took a second job, working from 8am to almost midnight 7 days a week. I thought it was the mortgage that was breaking us, then after selling the house, I thought it was my spending - groceries, bills, lunches, etc. I just couldn't understand how we could be living paycheck-to-paycheck with the salaries we both made. I just couldn't "see". I didn't want to.

As the pages progressed, so did the years, and I came to my final entries. As I read each entry my stomach tightened. My eyes began to water. There it was, the sickness. I read the entry I wrote the night after I found him unresponsive next to me in bed. The entry I wrote while sitting sleepless in ICU waiting for him to wake. Shaking penmanship and teardrops stained my entry as I wrote, "Am I dreaming?" The ink had faded and run down the page. I had saved him, and in the process lost myself. I continued to read, through the pages detailing his time in detox, rehab, and the sleepless nights holding him as he shook and screamed. All the while my light - the muse that had helped me write with such openness and intensity, with humor and heart - began to fade. My eyes began to dull. And breathing didn't quite seem needed anymore.

And then there it was, my last entry made on March 2. Three weeks after it all came to a head. My handwriting - never the greatest being left-handed - had turned almost illegible. It said, "He left. I can't breathe. Oh God I can't breathe." The end of my little book - or so I thought.

It, of course, wasn't the end of my story. So much has happened in the past three years and I've learned to breathe again. I realized that not only had I lost my breath through my relationship with him, I had also lost my identity and my voice. Never one to shy from anything - I shied from him. And that was wrong. I feel lucky to look back on my past and realize how fortunate I am now, but there's still something missing. That light that once glowed so brightly within me is still dim. I'm hoping to get it back again and thinking this blog is helping. So for now this will do, and I'll just be happy to sit back and take a breath.

Oh what a hermit I could be...

I know it's a cheeseburger.
 I'm hungry and dieting.
Give me a break.

I used to wonder why I never met men in this town, and it slowly became evident the longer I lived here. I can't meet people when I never leave my house.

Did I expect to find the perfect guy hiding in my pantry behind the Pirate Booty and microwave popcorn? I guess not. But at my age going to bars has lost its excitement, and other venues just don't seem to be the "right" atmosphere for meeting people. My mother used to say, "You'll meet someone at the gym. There's lots of men there." This comes from the woman that used to compare me to Style TV reality star Ruby and say "She has a boyfriend...I just don't understand why you can't get one." Awesome, but that's another blog and therapy session entirely. When I go to the gym I'm there to work out - no make-up, hair pulled back and flailing around in Zumba class like an drunken maniac. Yeah, no guy is gonna look at me and say "Wow, she looks so hot tripping over that kettlebell!"

So, I've decided being a hermit may be my life's calling. I could totally do it: get a nice little cottage under a bridge somewhere and throw rocks at young whipper-snappers that pass by. Oh the joy of not having to shave my legs, or put on make-up, or worry about my appearance. I would have my privacy, my dog and sole possession of the remote. I could watch hours of crime TV and food TV and never have to worry about road rage, stupid people, douchebags or bitchy co-workers. Sounds ideal, I know. But sadly not possible. Granted, I do live a semi-hermit lifestyle now. But alas, a hermit I am not. Now to get myself out of the hermit "funk" and leave my comfort zone.

Soon this will happen as I pack up and move from the apartment that I acquired just a week after my husband - yes husband - walked out on me three years ago. Yes, I am in fact a "single girl squared" (single before, then married, divorced and single again). I've been through so much, holed up safe in my little apartment. And now, I'm about to leave my little cottage under the bridge and set out on a new adventure in a new city, new home, new everything. The hermit in me is terrified, but the survivor in me is stoked. I hope it's worth shaving my legs for.

Photo Note: I know it's a cheeseburger and this blog has nothing to do with cheeseburgers, sadly. But I have had a huge craving for a cheeseburger today and decided while I write my blog I can at least enjoy looking at this scrumptious, cheesy, meaty slice of heaven. Now I that I'm done I can go eat my veggies and hummus...son of a bitch.

Water, Water Everywhere...And Now I Have to Pee.

I have this recurring dream: I'm traveling on a highway over water. Miles and miles of water surround me and the road is getting steeper with every forward motion. I'm neither driving or riding, and I'm traveling at such a high speed all I can see is the blue of the water and the blur of the pavement.

Suddenly I'm flying through the air, unable to stop. I plunge deep into the water and continue to travel as if I'm flying through the cold, dark abyss. I'm horrified and can't breathe, but I keep my eyes wide open so not to miss any second of it.

Then I wake up. So yeah, I'm not a therapist or anything but I'm thinking that's a pretty symbolic dream. About what, I have no idea. I can gather it's about change, or fear, or passion - or something like that. I can see how it could be a fitting symbol of the past 10 years of my life. I totally get that. I now understand why I have to pee every time I have this dream.

I'm alone in the dream - the last single girl - but I know that's not the case. I know there are many of you out there, looking for an explanation of your singledom. Regardless of being the "last" or one of many, sometimes you just feel alone and treading through cold water.

This is the beginning of a blog that is mostly for my benefit - to purge some of those "lonely single girl" emotions through writing. But for anyone that finds it of use, or entertainment, I welcome you. It's going to be a bumpy ride. I'll pull over if you need to pee.