In Every Heart There is a Room

“In every heart there is a room
A sanctuary safe and strong
To heal the wounds from lovers past
Until a new one comes along
I spoke to you in cautious tones
You answered me with no pretense
And still I feel I said too much
My silence is my self defense”

I wondered all week how I’d start this, how I’d write this, and how I’d end this.

I don’t think there’s anything particularly hard about this post. I’m not experiencing writer’s block, or deep sadness, or deep joy either. I’m just riding these waves. It seemed like a week in which I really didn’t want to be misunderstood; to misunderstand myself. There is so much to say, like about growth and looking at my memories almost from a third-party perspective. Like I can watch myself and my family, but we’re mini cardboard cut-outs, or paper dolls, and I can flatten them into a storybook and put them on a dusty shelf. I can see myself until it blurs all the memories together and I don’t know which one is me anymore, and if maybe I’m watching Scarlet instead.

And I feel healthier and more whole. Like I really was/am there. Here.

Last night while looking at my computer for work, and otherwise, Des asked me four times what I was thinking about and why I looked so sad. Four times! I didn’t even know what moment he was catching me thinking about, or if it was at all related to what was on my screen. I think probably not. Was it about sleeping well and caring less? Was it about a whole day I had, on Thursday, of clarity and not exhaustion. Why wasn’t I tired for an entire day? Was it because of breakthroughs in therapy, or if not breakthroughs, of actually addressing and facing numerous issues? Maybe it’s because I went at all. I didn’t want to go, but I wanted even less to chicken out. Not on my brain.

Not on my watch.

Did I sleep and dream so well because the puppies were in my bed, and it’s beneficial for me to sleep with beings who are warm and wriggly and adoring? The way they wrap around my head and my heart. Always touching me. Always loving me. So I dreamed heavy dreams, like that I was in a car with Bruce Hornsby driving, and we probably chatted about the weather, which is a lot more interesting to chat about these days. It’s all April snow showers, earthquakes felt from New Jersey, and a total eclipse of the heart. Maybe I want more love because of what I’ve been lacking.

So many kids and dogs. It’s ok. I have plenty to give.

Sometimes I dream heady dreams about exotic destinations and sun on my skin, and sometimes my home gives me sun on my skin. I looked down at my computer and thought about feelings, or when they’re numbed or muted, or just dealt with. Maybe I’m sometimes getting comfortable with feelings. Sitting with them, and myself. Getting comfortable with them, and myself. I was struck this week by the thought that it’s harder to hurt my feelings than it used to be, and it used to be pretty damn easy. It’s harder these days because I don’t need someone to need my company, when I need my own company enough. My kids and dogs enjoy my company, and friends ask me for coffee, even if my scattered brain and anxiety get in the way. At least I can tell them that, and I’ll get warm and/or understanding returns. I’m comfortable with my obstacles and my struggles.

And that I have learned to ask for help.

I’m comfortable with my job and the flexibility it gives me, to be able to have the time and money for expensive lunches with my kids on half days. I’m comfortable with my vulnerabilities and I’m also comfortable if I’m vulnerable with you, and you’re not vulnerable back. I’m still being me, and I’d still rather be this way. And I’m comfortable to be trying, a lot of different things, and at a lot of different times. I’m comfortable to be, as I wrote on Instagram, full of love to give, colors to wear, and words to say. All of this makes its way up and out. I’ve been this person for a very long time, but I don’t know why I’d ever dull my love, colors, words. I’m comfortable to still believe in magic.

Kind of, sort of, and sometimes, even when it’s unmistakably in my face.

I’m comfortable with having nothing to prove to anyone, except my family, of course. I want them to see someone who tries and fails, and tries again. I want them to see someone looking down sadly at a computer when thinking about the harder stuff, but also looking happily up, full of hope. I’d rather write this with eyes brimming with tears, because I feel something. I’d rather the words take the brunt, so that I can ease my soul, and its aches. I’d rather the pages are filled with tears, because I can make myself cry. I don’t mind Des seeing my sadness here. Maybe I can laugh and say, “No, Des, this is just my work concentration face.” Or maybe I can say, “You’re right, Des, I’m a little sad. And I’m a little happy too. This world is full enough for me, and it’s full enough for you.”

Maybe that’s what I’ll say next time.

“And this is why my eyes are closed
It’s just as well for all I’ve seen
And so it goes, and so it goes
And you’re the only one who knows
So I would choose to be with you
That’s if the choice were mine to make
But you can make decisions too
And you can have this heart to break”