No One Is Coming To Save Me
On hard weeks, no regrets, and new chapters.
Last week was hard.
I feel like every week is hard, in one way or another.
Last week was really hard.
Nothing flowed. Everything went wrong. Or at least it felt like it did.
My car broke down.
After my ex left it unlocked and everything within it was stolen.
It was the sixth anniversary of my father’s death.
Everything felt raw and maladjusted.
I was battling a nasty throat infection.
Seven days of struggling to eat and swallowing in agony.
My ex didn’t turn up when he said he would to see our son.
Instead he told me he’s off to Paris for the entire Easter holidays with a woman.
And they’re just the moments that spring to mind, first, furiously.
If I pause and think, for more than two seconds, more start tumbling in:
I tipped some infant bottles I’d been saving into the recycling bin.
And shed a tear for a baby I’ll never have.
I cut the skin on my forearm on a blackberry bush.
I spent more time than I’d like to admit wondering why I was left on read.
Did I say something? Did I do something?
My mind’s default was to spiral.
How does someone go from adoring you to hating you?
Why is there such a stigma around divorce?
Are these antibiotics even working?
Do I actually like him or do I just like the dopamine hit?
My week was not all hard. Here’s some things that were easy:
Driving to the King Valley and singing with my niece, I.
This is what really matters.
Dancing across Victoria, from Geelong to Milawa.
How lucky am I to call this life.
High fiving my son, O, at the MCG, as Melbourne kicked yet another goal and started their season with a bang.
His face was joy.
Having a drink with J.
I’ll never get sick of meeting new people who get it.
Getting a message back.
Sometimes my impatience is a self-inflicted weakness.
Landing a new client.
Wearing a neon pink dress to a country ball.
I feel like a princess.
I spent a lot of last week repeating a well-worn line over and over to myself: no one is coming to save you.