I’ve been begging my boyfriend to take care of himself for weeks.
“Take a break,” I’ve said. “Please rest.”
Today, I started thinking about taking my own advice. In the back of my head ran my to-do and must-be list, the list including all the people I would be failing if I threw in the towel, even just for a few days. My boss. My boss’ boss. My house dad. My instructors. My teams. My roommate. My boyfriend.
Failed. Failed. Failed. Epically failed.
They’ve all told me that it’s okay for me to grieve. For me to fall to pieces. For me to not be okay, even when I don’t know why.
For some reason, it sure hasn’t felt that way.
I told my roommate, “I can’t be that here. I can’t grieve here. Ideally, I’d go home and be alone and be separate from all of this craziness for a few days.”
And then my roommate, full of wisdom and grace, looked at me and said, “So why don’t you just go home?”
So I did. In tears and loaded with dirty laundry of all kinds, I got in my little blue Subaru and drove my stubborn, over-it, wrecked and broken-hearted self home.
Which is where I am–and plan to be– for several days.
Things are still going to get done. My work is here with me–how disconnected could I be with internet at my fingertips?–and I’ll write, hopefully more for the love of writing than any real reason.
At some point, I’m going to turn off all my electronics and just walk to the lake, sit at my Selah place and just try to take deep breaths. I’m going to try to allow myself the grace for tears if they feel like coming or silence if there are no words. And I’m going to just be heartbroken for a while, over what feels like nothing.
But it’s not nothing. It’s something.
It’s my heart.