Exit, Stage Left

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Here it is.  The end.

The end of a long, storied era.

Does it feel like I’ll be here tomorrow?  It does.  I won’t though.  Not as before.

I don’t know how to explain that I won’t – it won’t be like this, it won’t come out of my body even in the same way. I don’t think I realized how hard I’d have to put my foot on the brakes to make this happen, but it has to.  I have to take off the harnesses and braces and chains and personal limitations and move forward.   Sharing my diary everyday has proven I can do it.  I can generate the words.

But that’s not…writing.  And I’m fooling myself if I treat it as if it is.

I can’t share this with people I know.  I can’t assert that I do this and not say, hey, go read it, interact with me, tell me what you think when the writing I do here is really not meant for a wider conversation.  I am up one day down the next and the emotions have, in their nature, a redundancy that I can’t fight. I can’t just fake how I feel and not end up writing something altogether fictional, and if I’m going to go that route, it might as well not be about me at all.  Be saleable, be an experience.  So we have to go away, in part.   I have to accept truths.

2017 is breathing down my neck and somehow, I feel its beneficence shining behind all of these clouds.  It’s a neutral party.  It hasn’t been set in stone or jelly.  It is all potential.   I am all potential, too.

Today, this last day of this hard year, I spent with people who cared about me.  Who showed it in all sorts of ways.  I had my hair curled and makeup on and this new dress.  The waiter was nice to me.  I did not *not* talk to the guy.  I did not *not* say anything I wanted to say.  Some sense of okayness, of needing to push through, as kindly as I could permeated.  Rather than my cousin telling me she felt I could do it, I told her I thought I could.

As grateful as I am, and as much as that gratitude stops the spinning plates of anxiety, this time, I want to say thank you to me.

Thank you for showing up here nearly every day for six years and trying, even when you didn’t feel up to it or strongly about what to say, thank you for caring enough to move off of square one.   I remember how helpless I felt then, wanting to write, but finding myself doing nothing day after day.  This was a path out of that place, even if now, too, I need a path.  I was the one who got up and opened the page and forced myself to get disciplined.  I was the one who did it.  Me.  Nobody else.  Nobody asked for it.  Nobody needed it.

I asked to do it.  I needed to do it.  Just as I need to do this now.

I want to be understood – it doesn’t matter, if I’m not.

I really loved this.  I really did.

 

 

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