I start pacing the little tract of half grass, half dirt, but in reality mostly weeds that calls itself a backyard. I like it back here though. I've been sitting at the table, my bike a short distance away, outlets to keep my computer energized. I've been pitching, editing, posting—working.
There's blocks to the productivity. I find myself insanely frustrated when I can't find the words. I'm writing a science based article about kitesurfing and I have to pitch it somewhere. I wonder if the editors will want me. I wonder if I can do this. I shake my head, cringing. The pacing in the backyard continues. I feel small raindrops greeting my frenzied walk. If only I could breathe.
Instead panic settles in, not resting, but landing defiantly in my being.
I can't breathe.
I start pacing again. How will I ever be a writer. I can't do this. I can't do this. I can't do this.
Tears begin to slide in a silent torrent down my fair skin.
I'm listening to music; the choice of which is probably not helping. I'm going for catharsis I think to myself.
I always seem to make the same mistakes //
I miss the way you smile when you look at me //
no one ever made me feel so safe // no one ever made me feel so free //
slow down don't forget me now //
I don't want to fade out of your memory //
Fuck catharsis. I'm so tired of crying. Can I get through this? The many layered feelings of heartbreak, inadaquecy, acceptance, uncertainty, hope, and holding on shuffle through my soul.
I don't know if I'll make it as a full-time writer. I don't know if I can sit still long enough to be a full-time writer. I don't know why I ever had to meet him and I don't understand why I still hurt.
And all I know to do in this moment is hit replay on that song, let the tears fall for two more minutes, then put on a little makeup, jump on my cutest-bike-in-the-world and take a coffee break.
Because we all know how much better bikes and coffee make me feel.