confession: i was sitting, procrastinating, looking for music to inspire me, finding it, getting out of my chair and dancing, extended solo-dance-party procrastinating. i was supposed to be writing. i was supposed to be editing the first draft and writing the second draft. the second draft is where i ruin my writing. for years i tried to pretend i was a first draft writer, that my first draft writing was brilliant enough. it’s not. writing the second draft is harder than the first. the hard work stretches ahead of me. i have a song on repeat that makes me want to dance, to drink, to run, to fuck, to eat, to take a nap, to read a book, to wash laundry, to take out the cat litter, to get down on hands and knees to scrub the kitchen floor, to do absolutely anything that isn’t writing the second draft.
confession: i can’t decipher which compromises are healthy relationship give-and-take and which compromises are settling for unsatisfied needs because our needs are incompatible. i’m not sure if i am greater than or less than who i would be alone, if he is more or less than his best self with me. i want more. i always want more. i want more me. i want more him. i want us to divide into separateness if our sum has become less than our parts but i’d rather we find ways to be more me and more him while more-more us together if we can.
confession: lord have mercy. i never say that phrase outloud but i think “lord have mercy” several times a day in an accent that belongs to someone i knew when i was small.
confession: i accidentally dream of my father, scary dreams that become nightmares when he chases me, homesick dreams of a home i never had, dreams of deathbed apologies–both versions—his and mine.
confession: my poor mother, pobrecita. she believes she likes me until i’m sitting across from her and she can’t stand the sight of me, the sound of me, the smell of me…because half of me is my father.
confession: my therapist told me i’m ready. she’s good at her job. i trust her professional opinion. she and i agree that i’m more healed than i’ve ever been.
confession: i keep moving forward into the next minute, the next hour, the next day, the next week. i’m tired and more tired and more tired and i keep moving. i wonder why i don’t quit. quit anything. quit thinking. quit fighting. quit surrendering. quit wondering why. i wonder what is the point of wondering, why i bother with wondering why. i wonder a lot of why. then i get up and do what needs doing next regardless of the wondering or the why or the weariness.
confession: i’m happier than my writing implies. you know this if and when you see me in person. i radiate joy when i choose to interact with others. but i write when i’m alone. i sit in the dark and write. the writing might make more sense if you read what i write while you sit alone in the dark. i write to feel less isolated, restricted, frozen. i assume you read for the same reasons.
confession: every room in my home is filled with flowers. i received four bouquets for my birthday last week. flowers are my favorite. thank you.