Change doesn’t come easily for me. I’m a creature of habit. I find tremendous comfort in the clear concreteness of my daily routines. Breaking old habits and replacing them with new ones is hard. Deciding to change my eating habits, to go to the gym more, to do as the doctor tells me in order to improve my health is almost impossible sometimes.

Every time I lose a little weight I think, “This is so hard. Remember this the next time the weight starts to creep back on.”

And then life gets harder and I shut down. As I struggle to cope, I turn back to the old familiar comfortable habits and the weight creeps back on. It’s not as stealthily as it sounds, however. At some point the extra weight punctures through the depression and the fog by fighting against tight clothes or making a simple walk a struggle. So I start to think, “Oh, I should do something about that. Tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow.” And tomorrow after tomorrow come and go; until finally the anger breaks and I begin to move and the process begins again.

That initial anger burns too hot and too fast and doesn’t last long and there is a relapse. But somewhere in my head or my heart or in each cell of my body, pressure has been slowly building.

Until one day I look down and think, “Oh. Where did those fat ankles come from?” Which is silly as a fat body naturally has fat ankles but maybe that day they look fatter and out of nowhere I finally think, “Oh god. Why am I letting this happen again?”

The anger returns but it’s a deeper burn this time and that pleases me a bit because maybe this will be the time when it all finally clicks. It’s funny, isn’t it, the things that will push you over the edge.

There was a time when the word ‘always’ was code for something else. A time when I was afraid, unsure, when, because of my own insecurities, I didn’t trust that this person actually gave a damn about me. So, shyly, I presented him with a small gift - a stone with the word ‘Always’ engraved on it. He looked at it, he looked at me, and we both knew that that wasn’t what I wanted to say. We both also knew that I didn’t have it in me to say more.

So it went. Instead of “I love you” the word always was batted back and forth even after the other three words were comfortable in my mouth. It seemed right to me because I meant it. I thought he did too. And maybe he did; until he didn’t.

I had friends tell me I should be angry, that I should be mad for promises broken but I could never muster up more than hurt and disappointment over this loss because the only thing he’d done wrong was not pick me. How do you hate someone for that?

It’s long been a theory of mine that he didn’t pick me because he didn’t feel I needed him. I thought I didn’t either. It wasn’t until after everything had come to an end and I tried to accept that, to deal with it, to move on, that I realized how wrong we’d both been. It wasn’t until I kept waking up in the middle of the night, gasping for breath, tears streaming down my face, feeling this unbelievable pain that I realized I needed him in a way I never could have imagined. If you’ll excuse the melodrama, this experience didn’t just break my heart, it shattered it. I’ve spent the last four years trying to piece my heart together.

The first year I was convinced I’d never get past the pain and the tears. But as the cliche goes, time does its job. I just wish it did it faster. Somewhere along the way, I’m told that I’ll look back on it with nothing but fond memories and I hope for that day. In the meantime, I suppose I can be grateful for the little things like being able to listen to some of my favorite songs without breaking down or that I can say always again without wincing. The word is no longer under the shadow of those other 3 big words. That, I suppose, is a small but very hopeful sign of times to come.

I’m continuing my fun with MS Paint, as you can see. :D

A friend helped me get the current job. Even though she and I had very candid conversations about this opportunity, I’ve been feeling—I’m not sure if guilt is the right word but my head is hurting and it’s the best I can come up with right now—guilt, as if I’m letting her down by not succeeding at this job.

We had a chance to talk today; at first I was hesitant to say much of what I’ve been thinking and feeling. but I don’t see her often so I finally gave in to the need to vent and ask for guidance.

“I’m disappointed --”

“I was up front about it all,” she said.

“No. No, I’m not blaming you. Not at all,” I replied.

“I know you’re not.”

“I keep reminding myself that taking the job served my original purpose so when I think of it that way, it’s been a rousing success!”

We shared a laugh and continued talking.

It was a relief for me to see that she understands my frustrations and that she’ll support whatever decision I make.

Were it not for the pounding headache that snuck up on me sometime around lunchtime, I’d be a lot happier about that. There’s a small ball of relief and gratitude sitting right on my chest, though. I’ll be able to unfold it later and really appreciate it.