There are times, like pre-dawn when I run past Burbank Airport, which we slept at the edge at last night, when my eyes feel heavy and for a glimpse I feel the loneliness, post breakup, that makes you want to die.
The feeling shakes quickly. Just drops from your head as you step into the glow of a streetlight. Grief is absurd. There’s too much to do, and I’ve learned from past breakups that the pain is self-inflicted. We become so disappointed in the person we thought was supposed to be there for us. Too much reliance – other people may call this trust – that when someone unreasonably attacks you that they’ll have your back. I can take care of myself, and found this much more effective yesterday.
You fill with thoughts that you’ll never find a partner again. But I’ve thought that before after breakups and been proven wrong.
My greater concern lately lies in what I’ll do when my tour ends. I don’t think I want to work Warped Tour with F.A.R.M. I have no desire to live in the Bnb or condo, as I don’t care to be responsible for rent. I’m lucky that I have some family and friends I can stay with until I land my next job.
I’m going to use my freedom to either travel on site to work in a disaster relief program or some other live-on-site nonprofit. If something opens for All Hands, I’ll do that, and for times when I’m in between sites I am thinking to move in with my Grandma in rural Pennsylvania to take care of her, as she has been living alone in the same two story townhouse much of her life and is less able each year to function there.
I’ve heard from my aunt and father, that have tried to live with her, that she is challengitaking share a house with. She is fastidious and speaks in a shrill voice that must sting when laced with directives of things she wants done, in just the right way.
However she may act when I live with her, I will stick it out as long as I can as she is the relative that came rescued my brother and me from neglectful foster care parentshand raised us for a year.
We had been living like feral children in the Blair Mill Apartments. At ages 6 and 8, my brother and me roamed the complex with no sense of time or place. We went where we wanted and came home when we were hungry. We played outside till all the other kids were called home and wandered in and out of homes of people my mother never met. The things we saw I’ll save for another post, but I think I was lucky to have been an ugly, awkward child.
Living with my Grandma was tough. We didn’t like it. She was strict. It was only after we left that I understood she had performed a rescue.
She taught us boundaries like curfew and bedtimes. She took us to the library a couple times a week and respected the time I wanted alone in my room to read. Husky porkpie me slimmed down and discovered that I was pretty good at running long distance and playing street hockey. Students at my old school struggled to recognize me when I returned to my old elementary school the next year. When she and my 5th gradmy teacher saw me sailing through class, she had my IQ tested and placed me in a gifted program.
The concept of “confidence” was new to us, as my brother and I were aberrants in a white community and shabbily dressed in my cousin’s hand-me-downs that we wore through till they were threadbare and the elastic had worn out. I remember feeling shame every time I put on my magenta pink bathing suit. It had a cute green seahorse embroidered on the belly, but was littered with holes I would push my fingers through when shyly waiting to enter the water so that no one would stare at the way I was dressed.
I’ve run out of time to write this morning, but generally I’ll use this opportunity of moving solo to accomplish things I’d be too tied down to complete if I were in a relationship.
I’m only 31, and there’s no shame in dying alone if I’ve lived a life I’m proud of.