New house. New windows. New darkness and new alarms. Even the level of the house had changed; where I was once on the second floor, head in the air, face in the trees, I was now on the ground level, tenants' horseshoe-shod feet goose-stepping overhead on hardwood floors.
It was all too new.
My habits went out the window, one of many, many windows that flew open. Where do I put my table cloths? Why did I move these pants? Where’s that thing, you know the thing that used to be at that other place?
I struggled. I continue to struggle.
Writing has become more like work, less like leaning across the table with friends, a whisky in one hand, the other used to draw in the air.
It’s like this – and this – and then he said this…
I became protective of my words. Afraid to let them out at night – they had betrayed me, hadn’t they? The things and words that I had known to be true floated down, landed at my feet and then blew to the corners to be swept up later.
Where did I put my broom? Wait. Do I own a broom?
I have fought for – and won – a semblance of normalcy. I am getting a divorce. I know where my socks are. I am seeing a new man. I am back to cooking, to going to bed at a decent hour, back to yoga and kettlebells and large, heavy ropes that seek only to dislocate my shoulders…
I am back. But am I the same?
I need your help. Tell me what you know.