edited post

I wrote this post a while ago but couldn't figure out an ending. So, here it is without one.


From my last post, 10/31/05: "At least when she was there I could pretend she cared. I could easily convince myself that I wasn't alone and I was understood and I'd be okay again. I don't know how to do that in an empty bed in an empty apartment."

But somehow I did do it. I planned ahead and when she asked me if I wanted to stay over, I said no. I told her in all of my be-proud-of-me-in-therapy, I'm-openly-communicating-my-needs glory that it wouldn't be healthy for me to be around her. I made arrangements to stay at a friends place when I finally did get back into town because that fear of an empty bed and no one to go home to I thought just might drive me to stay with her that night.

I called that friend when my delayed flight finally arrived and told her that I just wanted to go home. I got picked up from the airport by Her and after a brief stop in her apartment, I headed home. She tried to have a status-of-our-relationship/friendship talk, but I bypassed it, not with as much open honesty as a perfect person would have, but not with as much avoidance as is my usual style.

I've made a home for myself. I like my bed. It's warm and I keep an extra blanket on it and it's just how I want it. No one steals the covers and I have about a thousand books next to me which I can pick through to find exactly what I'm looking for. My DVD collection is growing. I have my political posters on the wall. I have my soccer poster up in the living room. I have pens all over the house so it's easy for me to write something down whenever inspiration strikes. My old, heavy typewriter always has a piece of paper in it, and usually bits of emotion displayed in the unevenness of my makeshift replacement ribbon.

My apartment is not clean, but I like to leave my lamps on the lowest of the three settings and buy vanilla candles to put on my huge window sill. In my bedroom there's a wall with things I've taped onto it. A postcard from Holly; a detailed, but nervous doodle from Mandi; a quote from Marla's writing that calms me inside when I read it; a declaration about beauty; my imperfect translation of our favorite Spanish pop song; and a lot of blank space open for more.

My medal hangs in between my bedroom windows, watching over me at night, and inspiring me as I sit at my typewriter. I have shoes in a pile in the corner, below a bookcase of writing that's all mine. Old journals, and notebooks from class where I took the margins as my own,; creative writing portfolios, and a history of the times I felt like writing.