I’ve kept a planner consistently for every year I’ve been out of school-Real people school- Working towards a grade school. For a while I thought I’d use them as a daily log for reminders and tasks, set goals and a step by step list of how to achieve them. Over the years they became food diaries, physical activity logs, I tracked my every move. With the hope that one day something amazing would happen and my biggest fear was I’d fail to record it.
All my waiting seemed to be wasted with,
“Home for the weekend. Saw him. Slept with him. Made me cry. Phone call. Bullshit story. Ate Taco Bell. Got drunk. Went home. Didn’t see him” type physical activity , food diary, emotional reminders.
I held on to these planners. For years. Mementos of moments. The same tired moments. Maybe I thought I’d be able to crack a code if I looked at them closely. And I admit I tried. Tried to decipher his patterns. But there was nothing of any significance. Because there was nothing there. One thing was clear, I was always in control. I could’ve stopped at any time. But familiar is always better than uncharted territory for our hearts.
We are after all, creatures of habit.
After the flame blew out I held on. I became obsessed with the idea that if I looked back on my lists it would spark some time of inspiration to write a story, to retell a story and it would rekindle the flame.
I was delusional. And thought these bound pages would somehow be the key to my mental block and quite frankly fear of love. I’m looking at this stack of books now. Dusty and falling apart. Not filled with stories but potential. All that time I wasted trying to be someone I didn’t know how to be. All those pages wasted on trying to capture real life experiences and turning them in to fantasy. How foolish I was to think that I was truly in the moment. When it was those blank pages that I was really living.
what I wanted was a perfect love story. And maybe it is..But not with the person who I thought.
With myself. With perspective.
7 years of self doubt, insecurity, fickleness.
Good bye to the paper records of broken records.
Good riddance to the old me.
We’re more sure about who we are these days.