confession: i gave her a cantaloupe for her birthday. i love her. cantaloupe love is true friend love. yay for vitamins a and c! i also lined her doorway with flowering potted plants: a begonia, a kalanchoe, and a pom-pom. it occurred to me this morning that if i loved myself as well as i love my favorite friends, then i’d buy myself a cantaloupe and begonia and kalanchoe and pom-pom. i’m picking these up later today, this time for me.
confession: i woke up sick to my guts in the middle of the night. i sent a text at 4:45am canceling my lunch plans because i knew my guts wouldn’t feel better by noon. i’m sick from swallowed anger and sadness. my guts can’t digest this anger or sadness. i cried out some of the sadness this morning. i wrote the email i’ve been avoiding. my heart hurts. my eyes are swollen. my guts ache. the anger has passed because i expressed the “fuck you” that i‘ve been swallowing for months.
confession: i’m at the end of chapter three in the epic novel of my new life’s creation. the mental and emotional landscapes are unpaved, rugged, and rocky. i’m at a crossroads with some people, places, things, thoughts, ideas, and beliefs about whether to keep them or release them. i remind myself that there are no mistakes, only learning opportunities.
confession: i think i might have found a house to buy, even though i wasn’t looking. it goes on the market this saturday. i’ve booked the appointment for the second showing.
confession: i’m reading three books at once (which is usual) and i’m resisting all three (which is unusual), because their wisdom directs me to do what is difficult but necessary to do for this new life i’m creating.
confession: i saw her yesterday, the her that makes me feel most like the me that i want to be and happy to be alive. because of these feelings when i’m with her, i want to spend more time with her. we’ve scheduled a hula-hooping sleepover with her new pomeranian puppy for tuesday night.
confession: it is nice to hear that you love me, but i won’t trust the words until you show me…consistently…over time. love is an action verb. if you claim to love me, then choose to love me, because empty words are too easy to speak.
confession: buttered toast is my gluten-heavy lactose-infused fat-spreaded pleasure. while the bread is in the toaster, i hold the butter on the knife above the toaster, warming it so that the butter spreads easier and drippier. a few days ago, the warming butter slid off the knife into the toaster. i said, “whoops, that can’t be good.” papi hopped off the couch, leapt into the kitchen, unpuggled the toaster, and popped my toast out. thanks, papi. i’m spoiled like that.