my life is so small

It’s been a few weeks since I’ve cried. For a girl on the edge, that’s an eternity (when you take a moment to think about it). I hadn’t taken a moment. I’ve been fine, really. Why would I think about someone who’s no longer there?

Today my ex-boyfriend (I hesitate as I type this–it hasn’t been long enough for that title to stick. Surely he isn’t that far gone. Surely I still need him to be more) sent a snapchat video of an office in NYC. I’m not sure if, sans prompting, he would ever read my blogs. So, given the “ex,” he’ll never read this one. I’m sure he sent the video to lots of people. But did anyone else react like I did? I sat there, stunned. He’s in New York. And I didn’t know. For the first time in years, I couldn’t locate him. If you’d have asked I would have given the wrong address. I didn’t know. It’s no longer part of me–to know.

I used to know. I’m not very good at directions, but I could point you to him in a flash. For so many years I could say: frat house, library, home, little john’s. I wanted to protect him. I needed to know him. I loved and loved and loved him until I didn’t have myself anymore. I’ll always love him in some capacity. But he–he really is far gone. So far that I can’t fathom how New York City feels this time of year. 

I didn’t think about my ex-boyfriend as an ex-boyfriend until I saw an ex-boyfriend this past weekend. Ya following? And then, he was just that. As ex as the boy who sat before me. The one in front of me was one I dated six years ago. Six years! I’m young enough for that to be a really long time ago. And yet. It was short enough for me to remember why I ever liked him in the first place. I’m so different from the person I was six years ago. God, I turned 18 and 21 and graduated college in that span of time. I was a new person with this person I’d known for so long. And that felt really good. 

Here we are, trying to be as much of ourselves as we can be. As a “single” girl on what I assume is “the prowl,” I find myself seeking my bed before I seek a bedmate. How in the hell do I become more of myself like this? Or is that question an answer in itself? I think I’m on an upward spiral. Every day I come more fully into my yoga headstand. Ankles to ass to air to sky–I can almost stand on my head without falling over. I am almost, always, something. I don’t know if I’ll ever, fully, be anything. I’m scared to admit that I’ve half-assed my way to this point in my life. I’m even more scared to admit that I’m okay. 

Sitting at my desk today, I wallowed in what I can only call…the smallness of my life. I find joy in the tiniest moments of life–the ones that most people probably accept as a given. Or not. Maybe people pray for these moments. Maybe I’m the asshole blogging about them, diminishing their beauty with every keystroke. Compared to what I thought I’d be when I was 22, my life is small. It is small in its blessings and in its tragedies. It is small and I can hold it and I can cry over it and I can suck it up and I can love it to the end of its days.

Does my small life end when a bigger one begins? Where does bigness come from? A new job? A new love? A new perspective? Or are we all just really small for a really long time?

Sitting at my desk, I pulled a sticky note. I wrote, in the sincerity directly attached to the any thought that came before “I’m going to blog today,” : My life is small. There’s so much room for me to breathe. And that was it. I was okay. I don’t know how I feel about anything. I miss my ex-boyfriend and his constant presence. I’m intrigued by the presence of my other ex-boyfriend. I feel, also, something so close to singular wholeness, that I wonder why I ever thought about boys in the first place. 

I stuck that sticky note in my wallet. It’s there. It’s true. Boys seem to trigger feelings in me. That’s natural, normal, boring, small. And then there’s me. Small life, big feelings? Shit, okay. I’ll take that. I’ve given myself room to breathe. The smallness of the things around me feels wonderful with each breath. I breathe in, and we expand. We are me and my dirty apartment and my weird cat and my even weirder dog. Everyone and everything looks to me–are we really so small? Of course not. You are my life. 

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