The stars said I need to write. I know they see me. The world is coming back to life and the draft is still unfinished. Do I start it all over or try to land the plane in a random field somewhere, just to say it’s done?
The shitty first draft. A play that can be worked and reworked and cast and rehearsed and turned into a story playing to a room of people who might or might not care.
When I started writing it, quarantine had just started and I was lonely. Am still lonely. Writing a play about a three-way in quarantine seemed fun. Create characters when there aren’t any around you. At first it was fun. The words came easily. Scenes and ideas and dialogue, funny and dark and sexy.
Things eventually started getting murky. Nothing felt like it had a point. Theater didn’t exist. Anger and fire were everywhere. The story felt frivolous and privileged. The words stopped coming.
But we aren’t there anymore. Not in that exact moment anyway. Even if that moment is still felt. The sun is out and people have emerged. Theaters are opening and their stories are full of timely heaviness that we are all too accustomed to anyway. I crave light, maybe other people do too.
So there you have it.
I met him a year ago. And he left me several months ago. There’s an arbitrary rule that healing needs to take half the amount of time that you dated. But that is pointless and ridiculous. Especially when a breakup comes with so much PTSD.
At first I tried to follow that rule. Get better get better quick quick quick. Because I didn’t want to be stuck in sadness and pain from that monster. The ex. The person who still voices every criticism I lob at myself. I tried to get on online dating because “that’s what people do” when they get to a certain point in singledom. But it’s not for me. Not now, at least. Every bad date and pointless fuck and unexplained ghosting gets at me and makes me hurt. More than it should.
It’s not supposed to feel that heavy. It used to be fun. Like a game. Adventure. Now even small rejections and left swipes sting like he’s leaving and yelling at me on a street corner again.
Fall is beautiful and it has me so restless. It’s easy to get caught up in it and want to pair up before the weather gets too cold. Because how else will you get through winter if he’s not in your bed with his hair and smell and bare chest and warm arms?
You just will. And it’s not even winter yet.
Don’t worry. Just take care of yourself and start making plans. For writing. For singing and dancing and insanity. For play readings in your apartment with friends and pizza. For reading and relaxing and doing good things for your body. For trips to New York City and San Francisco and Scotland and the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. Just relax and keep going.