For the past few days I’ve felt a burning desire to spit fire and blame at my former fiance. I couldn’t explain it, and I was reeling against myself for wanting so badly to push all the blame on him. I shared these feelings with a close friend of mine, and while she could empathize, she assured me these urges were natural and that if I felt I should tell him something, then I should.
Last week I spoke about feeling out of place in my own home while we wait in limbo for our new house to be built–a house I won’t even live for another year, and then possibly only intermittently after that. It’s disappointing and discouraging, and in general, I’m still trying not to think of it all too much.
I have more important things to tend to–like recategorizing every post I’ve written for the past three and a half years, a task I’m plowing through against everything else. It’s been enlightening to see so much of my personal history, and it’s ironic how many trends I’ve noticed in living life holding down the rewind button.
A little more than two years ago I wrote The Plight of Paper People, reflecting on the coming close of one chapter of life as the new pages unfolded before me. I described people as paper, able to be torn and taped back together, able to be colored upon or crumpled up and tossed aside.
The changes I spoke of looming on the horizon are all the changes that have now happened, and like those paper people, I feel torn up and taped together, stained and set aside.