“I search for the words. Restless. As if you haven’t really met yourself yet. As if you’d passed yourself once in the fog, and your heart leapt – ‘Ah! There I Am! I’ve been missing that piece!’ But it happens too fast, and then that part of you disappears into the fog again. And you spend the rest of your days looking for it.” ~ Libba Bray, The Sweet Far Thing

February 2014.  When I sit down and think of what year it is now, I get anxious.  Where has all the time gone?  There is so much to do, and too little time to do them.  I am unsure of where to begin and what I should do next.

I miss traveling.  I miss going to foreign places and immersing myself in the culture of whatever country I am visiting.  I miss the feeling of stepping foot in a place where I have never been and anticipating what adventure awaits me next.  I want to make plans with friends to visit somewhere new and spend some time in the summer drinking cocktails under the stars in a quaint little sidewalk bar.

I miss the smell of newborn babies.  I want to have more children and watch them grow right before my eyes.  I want to experience youth again by living through my future kids.  GP and I have been trying for six months, and as yet, have had no luck with conceiving.  Although I am not yet technically “too old”, I am on the “later” spectrum of the breeding years and I have been advised by a fertility specialist that “time is of the essence.”

Travel?  Or try to have more kids?  Realistically, I cannot do both at the moment.  I have to stay focused on one thing, and my mind is racing a million miles a minute.  I am tired, but yet I feel restless and unsettled and I ache to do something.  Anything.  

What plans should I make for the rest of year?  Should I make travel plans for the summer, or should I buckle down and start fertility treatments?  I don’t know.  I have to decide first what I want to do.  But I want to do it all.

Cracked Open

“The only obsession everyone wants: ‘love.’ People think that in falling in love they make themselves whole? The Platonic union of souls? I think otherwise. I think you’re whole before you begin. And the love fractures you. You’re whole, and then you’re cracked open.” ~ Philip Roth, The Dying Animal

Whenever I was single and alone, I felt empty.  I felt a gaping void inside myself that I thought could only be filled by being with somebody.  So to fill that emptiness until I found someone, I would travel, or write, or read, or take archery classes.  I listened to music and sang to myself as I experimented new recipes in the kitchen.  I went to church and talked to God.

After some time, I would not feel so vacant anymore.  In fact, I would feel fulfilled.  Whole.  I would feel content and happy with my own company, and the mere thought of inviting someone, a relationship, into my life, felt like a violation.  But I would, eventually, because I would remember how being with someone could feel so good.  My life would then become wrapped up with his life, and the hollowness in my life would then be filled by him and everything that surrounds “us.”

So when that “us” falls apart, and when I am left with just myself, I start to miss all the things that being with him filled in my life.  I would then realize that I would not have a “plus 1” to bring to social events, and that I would not need to even make so many meals as it would only be just for me, just for one.

That is when I would feel sorry for myself.  I would feel the loneliness and I would suffocate in the empty space left by him.  I might even miss him, miss the warmth of his body next to mine, and forget about the way he used to blame me for everything that went wrong in his life.  I would forget the 262 ways he irritated me with his immaturity, and I would only think about how I am now supposed to look forward to lonely nights by myself.

I have to remember that I was complete without him.  Being with him, with anybody, you lose pieces of yourself to make their pieces fit in with yours.

I have to regain my pieces, while I am still with him.  I will vow never to let myself feel incomplete ever again.


Memories, even your most precious ones, fade surprisingly quickly. But I don’t go along with that. The memories I value most, I don’t ever see them fading.” ~ Kazuo Ishiguro, Never Let Me Go

I always thought that I had a good memory.  I can remember minute little details from my childhood, like the flowery bedspread my mother gave me when I was in elementary school, and the yellow flowery pillow sheet that I used to cover my favorite pillow, and on which I laid my head for several years and cried on for many nights during my teen years.  I remember portions of events from when I was young, and I even remember how I felt during those moments.

G is six now and she is often curious about how I was when I was her age.  She lost her front tooth recently, and she asked me how long it took for mine to grow back when I had lost my front tooth.  I was surprised when I realized that I did not remember.  I have a very vague recollection of losing my teeth, but yet I can remember the exact layout of my bedroom in our house on Greenport Avenue in California.

I remember the time my sister came back from school one day when she was in first grade and she told me that she felt lonely because no one in school liked her.  I told her that she could sleep with me that night and I sang to her until she fell asleep.

I remember the day my brother went off to the military, and how I cried when he left.

I remember when my mother turned thirty-eight and how I was afraid that she was getting old.

I remember the time I wasted being angry with my dad and how we did not speak for much too long for a reason that no one can even remember anymore.

I am trying to piece back the vestiges of my childhood and early adult years and while I may not remember losing my first tooth, or the first time I fell or got hurt, the memories and events that I hold close to my heart, I will remember those for the rest of my life.