I wrote a story for my thesis that's about a man who essentially sews himself back together after his life crumbles. Stitch, by painful stitch, he slowly becomes whole again. I wrote the story because I feel like him a lot. Bits of thread and sheer faith that I won't fall apart.
Some days, it works better than others. There are times, whole months in a streak, where I don't even see the stitches. Lately, I'm feeling more threadbare.
I ended my relationship with Mr. Curls, but that was a good thing. In the end, he was still repeating the same patterns of thought and action that led to all the drama in his past. He thinks he's changed, but he hasn't. For a few days after the breakup, I was sad. That part didn't last long, because the relief was stronger. But, now, I'm left thinking about how, in the past five years, I met exactly one guy who liked me and I liked him back. Five years. What's wrong with me?
When I took my current job, I planned to be here for 1-2 years. Now that I'm a week away from my one year anniversary, I know that plan was the right one. I've grown claustrophobic. My search for a new job has so far yielded one, "We want you to come in for an interview, but we're still working out when," and half a dozen either outright, or implied, "Thanks, but no"s. What's wrong with me?
On Friday, my doctor sliced into my back, cut out a piece of me, and then put about a dozen black stitches into my skin to sew me back together. I'm in the mood to run. I'm a terrible runner, but the exercise eases my mind. With the stitches, it's painful to wear a regular bra, much less a tight sports bra. So, it's just me and the thread in my skin and the waiting.
I wait, and wait, and wait...
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