I’ve seen more ladybugs in twelve days than in twelve months. As omens go, that one is positive enough, but better still, the writing of Shonda Rhimes. I don’t care if I’m spoiling you for tonight’s Grey’s Anatomy.
Callie is standing on her own.
Callie is learning how to be herself first, too. And that’s where I need to be. I don’t want to live resentful; I want to live free, joyous, loving. He doesn’t want my love if it shackles me in any way. (Well, he will keep the love, but we are who we are: we keep love forever, because in our hearts it doesn’t spoil.) He doesn’t want my promises if they shackle me in any way.
We knew that we would step back and apart if the day came when we were obliged to choose each other instead of saying “Yes, this is how I am best.” We cried, together and apart. We miss what was, but would we take it back unchanged? I don’t believe either of us would. He wants me to go walkabout. He won’t have me back on a pretense. If he and I are ever again together, and one of us doubts as deeply as I have, then when we step apart the second time, it will be for keeps. No possibility of reconciliation.
You must understand that I do still consider reconciliation on the table, somewhere. But it is a large table with a lot on it. My things. To sort, to throw away or embrace as I will. I did the physical cleaning this summer. The emotional comes next.
Mari N.O.S. Not Otherwise Specified. It’s the term they use in medicine when they’re sure something fits the category, but it expresses itself atypically, or there are no good words for it. That’s me. I am not otherwise specified in a ton of ways. Some I can live with as open-ended questions, some I am still figuring out, some are defined now because not defining them hurt.
move forward and walk under a brighter sky
every nerve glowing like a firefly
I have to try.
I have to try.