Sticks and Stars

Almost one year ago to the day, I moved out of my ex’s house and into my own apartment after nearly ten continuous years of cohabitation with various partners. I remember, a year ago, how exciting it was to plan my apartment, to decorate it, to buy all new stuff, and then I remember how horrible the first week was, how once I was unpacked there was nothing to do except sit and think about how desperately I missed my ex and how he didn’t miss me at all and was in fact probably glad to have me gone. Although I was supposed to have moved out so that he and I could work on our relationship, so that we could return to a place of romantic dating and rediscover what we loved about each other, it became clear almost immediately that there was too much insecurity on my part and too much disinterest on his for something like that to work. I wanted to move back in but it’s amazing how fast that door slammed shut. After a week apart he decided we should break up for good. By sheer refusal to allow it, I forced us to be “together” for another three months, but really, the day I moved out is the day our relationship ended.

In the beginning it was so hard. I was desperately unhappy, crying constantly, and the only thing that saved me was tv. I watched hour after hour of every tv series I could borrow from Netflix or the local video store because the tv characters were my friends. They had lives that didn’t revolve around love or betrayal or rejection or the intense pain I was so desperate to escape. I dreaded every weekend until I remembered that I had a few more discs to help me make it through and often I’d even look forward it, look forward to coming home to my one-sided friendships.

I was so unhappy, so miserable, and one thing that helped me to breathe through my tears and to feel a tiny bit less desperate was to think, for a second, of how things might be in a year. I had no clue how they might be, maybe my ex and I would be back together, maybe I’d be with someone new, maybe I’d find some magical way to actually be content alone, but regardless, surely I couldn’t be so horribly unhappy in a year. Surely the pain would be less if nothing else. Surely I would have moved on at least a little. Remembering that time passes helped me to have hope that there was a future for me that wouldn’t look like my present.

A year later I’m sitting on my couch in a new apartment, in a new city. I have a different job. I have different friends. A lush container garden grows outside my window. My copy of The Artist’s Way sits open to this week’s tasks, partially obscuring a catalog of classes being offered at a local bead store. Next to them sits a sculpture magazine and a magazine about ecological architecture. My wallet sits next to me on the couch with my library card on top, not yet put away from the selection of cooking and food theory books I just reserved. iTunes is open on my desktop from my search a few minutes ago to find bands similar to an amazing band a friend introduced me to, a band so fucking awesome that I can’t stop listening to their music and haven’t been able to since I first heard them weeks ago. In a few minutes I will leave my apartment to join my friends for an evening of discussing our creative lives and how we are learning to live them. Tomorrow I will slip out of work for a couple hours to amuse myself at Folklife and next weekend I will dress as a wench and join another friend at the renaissance faire.

A year ago, I certainly wouldn’t have guessed that this is what my life would have become. I couldn’t imagine actually being happy alone, much less preferring it. It never occurred to me that art, that being creative might make me happy. I never would have dreamed that I would be seriously thinking of returning to school to become an architect. Or that I’d be making jewelry and scheming how I could incorporate a kid-safe workspace into my home. Or that I’d be eagerly anticipating a sunny warm morning so that I could sit outside and write while feeling at peace on my patio.

Every time I think to myself, I’m happy, I pause to gently feel around the edges, looking for tender spots and I can’t quite believe it when I don’t find them. I tell people I’m happy, but I say it with surprise in my voice and I have to tell them over and over because I can’t quite believe it myself. I almost feel like it’s a question that I’m asking: I’m happy? And the shocking answer that keeps coming back is yes, yes I am. The part that I almost don’t dare to whisper aloud for fear of being struck by lightening is that I might even be happier than I’ve ever been in my life.

The craziest part is that it’s all my doing. Back in late December 2006, as I pondered my upcoming move and job and life change, I hoped these changes were signs of good things to come. 2006 sucked pretty much from start to finish with really nothing good along the way and I sent every prayer I could to the universe that 2007 would be a better year. It didn’t occur to me that I might have some say in what kind of year I had. Yet here we are, soon approaching the halfway mark of 2007, and my year has been a great one, but not because the universe has sent me a winning lottery ticket or a handsome girl- and/or boyfriend or a prestigious job or some other wonderful gift, but because I wanted to be happy and I made it so. I did it.

A year after the event that truly devastated me and what I expected from my life, I’ve become a different person. It hurt, but I grew, stretched through my skin and expanded. I know myself so much better these days and I like myself so much better and I still discover new things I wouldn’t have expected. I can’t say it doesn’t hurt to think about what happened with my ex, to think about how he treated me, to think about what’s happening even now, but instead of that hurt comprising an entire ocean within which I am adrift, desperately clinging to a few boards that might euphemistically be called a raft, the hurt has become one small puddle in this glorious garden where raindrops sparkle on every leaf and the air smells fresh and new, and as I stumble through in awe of the beauty around me I barely notice when I step in it.

One year. So short, yet so, so long.

This entry was posted on Sunday, May 27th, 2007 at 10:48 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.