This is my first post where I am “winging it”. Up until this point, everything I have posted has been written longhand in a notebook and revised two or three times. Then it is revised again on this page. The difficult part about all of this writing is not that I don’t have anything to write, it’s that I have so much to write-so much to sort out-that I don’t know where to go. There’s the infertility, coupled with my own complex relationship with my mother that makes Mother’s Day such a fucking joy. There’s the years of denial on both our parts; denial that revolved around the idea that the lynch pin will fall into place and all will be well. There’s the anger, so much anger. There’s how much mental space he’s taking up in my brain. There’s not fitting in; not with the culture, not with the standard of beauty, not with women my own age, not with men my age, the list goes on. There’s the pressure to conform. There’s the longing, the constant craving for intimacy. There’s my invisibility which is tied to any number of the other issues mentioned and wanting someone to notice me but on my terms. There’s the therapist telling me that once I let go, those qualities that attract other people will emerge. Really? That hasn’t been the case so far. Then there’s my carefully curated life. It’s mine now and I will curate is as carefully as I please, thank you very much. There’s me asking myself was I abused or is this self-pity. Then there’s what’s the rush? Let yourself heal. You were together for 14 years, give yourself some time and some credit. To that I say, see all posts that are and will be tagged with intimacy.

Then, of course,  there is outer space.

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