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Every time I imagined adulthood, it looked different from this reality. All the important people in my life have their person. I have an empty house and my supposed dream job that doesn’t always love me back.
So often, I’m trapped between the pain of remembering and the fear of forgetting.
“It’s why I haven’t gone on a date in a while. It can be exhausting, giving that much when the other person is barely giving anything.”
“I’ve spent most of my twenties chasing this idea of domestic bliss I grew up with. And I’m not even sure what that means anymore . . . just that I want that constancy and comfort so badly sometimes that it scares me.”
I guess I just thought I’d have everything figured out by now. I’m almost thirty, and I don’t know if I feel any closer than when I was twenty-one or even twenty-five. There’s so much pressure to have all of this shit figured out, and I don’t have a clue what I’m doing. I wanted the kind of marriage my parents had, and I maybe wanted a family, but that’s not something I can even wrap my mind around yet. I can only cook, like, two things competently. Most of what I eat comes from meal kits. I have a gym membership, but I never go to the gym. I work most weekends. Sometimes I feel like I’m
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“But that time on the show, with that caller—you said you were interested in someone.” He rolls his eyes like I am the densest human on earth, and maybe I am. “Yeah. You.”
The thing about losing someone is that it doesn’t happen just once. It happens every time you do something great you wish they could see, every time you’re stuck and you need advice. Every time you fail. It erodes your sense of normal, and what grows back is decidedly not normal, and yet you still have to figure out how to trudge forward.
I used to think that without my dad, I’d never be whole again. But maybe that’s what we all are—halfway-broken people searching for things that will smooth our jagged edges.
