I was­n’t ready for the snow. I pic­tured myself at home with noth­ing bet­ter to do than sleep in as it was falling, but instead I’m too busy to enjoy it. Now there’s noth­ing left of the snow that has fall­en, cause fate seems to be con­spir­ing with the weath­er to make this Christmas any­thing but white.

Unfortunately, this is when I need to be buried under snow. I’m con­vinced the win­ter will wash every­thing away, and I’ll emerge clean again.

I don’t know what to do with myself late­ly. Ever since Will was born, catch-up time with ____ has been a call he gives me every now and then between meth­ods of pub­lic trans­porta­tion as he makes his way home from work. I just want to talk to some­one and have their undi­vid­ed atten­tion, cause it’s the old habits I miss the most, the late nights when you’d rather stay in some­one’s com­pa­ny than sleep. But the only peo­ple who under­stand are also the peo­ple with their own lives, and too often I’m left to my own devices.

As a result, I’ve been feel­ing vul­ner­a­ble. I hold myself back from reach­ing out to the wrong arms, the ones who touch my face and drag their nails across my skin, the ones with famil­iar smells and com­fort­ing weak­ness­es, the ones who appre­ci­ate the things I want to be appre­ci­at­ed for, but none of whom can give me what I need.

Dennis’s socks.

I’m sure I’d feel as lone­ly as ever if I was­n’t so over-stim­u­lat­ed and ready to be by myself for a while. This prob­a­bly won’t hap­pen until some point dur­ing the hol­i­days, and even then, I had plans on catch­ing up on per­son­al projects and chores I can only bring myself to do once a year¹. Maybe this is adults mean when talk about how time pass­es more quick­ly when you’re old­er.

I’m in between places now, unsure of where I am or where I’m head­ed. But at the very least, I know what I’ve been through and what’s behind me.

1. i.e. Cleaning the floor­boards and walls of the house. [↩]