Lost

I stood at the top of the hill, watching the sun rise over the trees. I had to come here every day to remember who I was. To start the day with an understanding of how I was going get through the day without losing myself. I was exceptionally good at losing myself. Truthfully, I just gave myself away every day. I know I have the power to change that yet, here I am again feeling the same way as yesterday. And today, like very day, I promise myself that I will not allow others to deplete me; that I will do what best serves my soul; and I will emerge at the end of the day, as the me I feel here in this moment.

I put the small notebook back in my jacket pocket. For years, I wrote in a larger journal. It was always a soft cover, so I could press the book open, and it had to be reef blue. Then I discovered that my partner had been reading my journal—every single word that was meant for only me suddenly used as ammunition to fuel every argument, every off-hand comment about my sensitivity, and every diatribe about my emotional inadequacy. Now, the small black book stays close to my body at all times. I am obsessively guarding it the way I guard my heart.

What scared him most, with the words jumping of the page in deep blue ink against the cream paper, was the number of times I wrote about how I imagined living my life alone. I often wrote incredibly early in the morning, capturing everything my soul had been holding while I slept. This was the entry that pushed him over the edge. Recalling it now, I’m not surprised by the level of detail and quite impressed with the clarity.

This house is too big. Three floors, including the basement. I long for more manageable space, right sized for me and the guests who would visit, for cocktails, for dinner, for the weekend.

Preferably near water. I've often dreamt of walking out of my home, turning right and heading down the hill to run along the Potomac. In that dream, I must have won the lottery because that sounds a lot like living in Georgetown.

If I did live alone, I imagine I would awake to quiet. I love quiet in the morning. Not silence, but quiet. Where you're still enough to hear the birds and the wind and your own breathing. Just quiet.

I know I would have a fancy Nespresso machine if I lived alone. Espresso, latté, or coffee for one at any time, but the capacity to caffeinate guests as needed. The living room would be cozy with a comfy couch for reading intriguing mysteries, my favorite type of book. There would be stay-a-while chairs for guests that say relax, tell me all about what's going on with you. The dining table would be round because a circle connects everyone in conversation and makes the laughter contagious.

The walls would be painted in "coastal colors." You know what those are: hues of beige with names like "sand" and "haze;" blues called "ocean aire" or "exhale." More lamps than overhead lighting with cream shades to further soften the rooms.

The kitchen would have an island where I have a sumptuous cup of coffee alone or where people gather. At all my favorite parties, guests always gathered in the kitchen. There would always be music in the kitchen for impromptu ballets, inspired dance parties, or Broadway sing-alongs.

I would have a small office. It would have the feel of a writer's retreat--a writer's desk and comfortable chair; a window that I can stare out of and let my mind wander; and an overstuffed chair with a throw over the back for chilly evenings. I'm not yet sure what is on the walls, but know the tones are serene and the emotions depicted are joyful.

My bedroom most definitely is painted a warm blue. Hopefully, it has two windows facing east so the sun can wake me up. There's a floral quilt or comforter bringing the outside inside. The nightstand is stacked with books and a journal for random thoughts and enormous feelings. There's another journal for story ideas and scenic descriptions of where these stories will take place. The closets are just big enough--I sense that I have chosen a simpler path when it comes to my wardrobe and accessories so I can invest in people, places, and activities that give me joy.

Somewhere there is a fireplace. I don't have a clear visual of its placement, but I know it has glass doors and during fall and winter, the wood is stacked neatly nearby.

Outside is a small slate patio. I've always been partial to the hues of gray and blue you find in slate. It's not uniform, but harmonious. There's an even smaller yard. There's a winding slate path through it and there are beds of color edged with Belgian block. I see a bright-colored bench--maybe teal that is richer in blue than green. There is no grass to be cut, but ground cover of emerald pink phlox. There's an old bird bath in the corner--with a few chips around its once-perfect circle--with a solar fountain. This is how I get the closeness to water just in case I don't win the lottery and live in Georgetown.

The references to the lottery and Georgetown are reflections of him. He once lived in Georgetown, in an English basement apartment, and was known as “the guy” in the neighborhood. Everyone knew his name and his story (he told it over and over again so many damn times). He was engaging and always, always had an opinion, whether you asked for it or not. He played the lottery every week. Not the scratch off games, but the numbers. He carried the lottery tickets in his wallet. He never won big, five or six dollars here and there, that he would “reinvest” in new lottery tickets.

With all this desire to live a solo life, I stayed. Why do people think it is so easy to leave a situation that does not feed your soul? What attracted me to him in the first place still exists in our morning conversations. What amplifies my desire to leave is who he is when he drinks in the afternoon. The light outweighs the dark, so I stay.

I walk back through the woods to the house. There is no trepidation filling my body as I put my hand on the doorknob. It’s still morning. He is standing in the center of the kitchen with a goofy grin on his face and an envelope in his hand. I can feel his excitement radiating from the back of the house to the front hall. My chest begins to tighten. I am not a fan of surprises, especially ones that come from him.

“I was going to tell you about this but wanted to wait until I knew how it turned out,” he says. This is a classic move—withholding information that impacts our lives and telling me after the fact. I feel the flicker of anger and the heat moving up into my neck and face. I’ve been practicing how to ease this immediate reaction and take a deep breath, exhaling the heat. “You’re going to want to sit down for this.” His words hit my ears; this is trigger #2. We go into the living room. I choose the sofa and he settles in the wing chair.

It suddenly occurs to me that I haven’t even taken off my coat. A small act that reveals my automatic response to jump right into other people’s timelines and needs. I look across the room at him and he is literally beaming, the sunlight through the window creating a glowing aura behind his head.

“I’ve been so inspired by you,” he says. Trigger #3. Goodness gracious, sakes alive! A phrase my mother would use when astonished by the fake praise people would bestow upon her and her good works. I shove the phrase out of my head and focus on what he has to say. This is what he expects and, as I push my emotions down, my inner actress rises up to embrace her favorite role—the conforming chameleon.

“I love how you express your creativity in your art and writing. I have no concept about how to create art, but I am good with words.” This is a true statement for him. He often stares at me while I paint, trying to understand how I choose the colors, the strokes of the brush, or the rose petals in place of the brush. I can’t explain it because I’m just feeling my way through the story that shows up on the canvas.

“I submitted an essay on politics for a writing contest.” Politics is his first love, though he never wanted to be a politician. I feel a hiccup in my heartbeat when he says writing contest. My core muscles are tightening, starting just below my heart, hardening around my ribcage. My body is telling me to prepare for a shock.

“I won.” My body floods with anger and disappointment. This is my dream, not his! I’ve dedicated my time and my soul to creating stories, while working a full-time job! I have put myself on display in public forums and experienced supportive praise and cruel rejection of who I am as a person and not just my words! His eyes have opened wider and his smile has grown. There is more to this story. Again, I effortlessly push my emotions into a box that I hide inside my soul. “Do tell,” I say with a huge smile, reflecting my willingness to be his audience for the big finale.

“The prize is $20,000!” For a man who has not had a full-time job in a decade, this is huge. He jumps out of the wing chair and rushes toward me. I stand up to meet his embrace, sharing in his excitement, mirroring his delight in himself and his accomplishment. As he tightens his bear hug, I feel the black notebook in my pocket pressing against my left side, just below my heart.

It’s only ten o’clock and I’ve already lost myself.