I'm possibly the worst blogger ever. This past year has been incredibly difficult. I'm going to try to recap, but there's a lot, and intense, and raw. I'll do my best.
After 2 years, I finally started dating again. I met someone who was a whirlwind to my heart. I was ready to pick up my life and move to NYC. Things were going great. We were flying back and forth, and Skyping every night. But then he told me that he only wants open relationships. If you're unfamiliar with what that means, he was saying that he won't commit to one sexual and intimate partner at a time. Even though TRULY open relationships are honest from day 1 about their other partners, and really what he was telling me was that he only entered into multiple, open-ended and casual relationships. My fury felt no boundaries. Once again I had been duped. He had waited 6 months to tell me that he had been sleeping with other women. Punch. To. The. Gut. So that was it. Game over. No more dating. Ever.
I was living with a roommate, scraping by, turning into a middle-aged cat lady. Dating was absolutely off the table. I was figuring out my exit strategy so I could live a hermit life. Then wham, the shit hit the proverbial fan. I never saw it coming.
My Aunt committed suicide. The dark place that was created inside her during her childhood was a hole. A hole with an appetite. I imagine she couldn't face that hole even one more day, to continue to watch it eat away what was left of her. It devoured the warmest places in her, and left only the cold and dark and angry. And she was tired. So she finally said no. Done with life. Done with her. The weight of that still rips me apart. But I get it. I know what those feelings are. I know how the darkness grows, and consumes, and ruins. It's an organism of despair.
To be honest, I never really got a chance to know her. She had been rejected when she told my grandparents she was gay. I had only seen her three times in my entire life. But I felt us to be kindred spirits, even in my youth. I, for some unknown reason, even kept a little photo of her that I found in my family basement. So when I found out how and why she had died, my anger and regret and uselessness rose with vehemence. These were blows within blows, coming one after the other. It rendered me a complete wasteland of words. I had no idea how to even talk to my Dad, who had just lost his sister. I'll tell you one thing, it sure as hell broke the inertia. Her death made me remember I was still alive. I suppose that's always the irony in tragedy, isn't it?
The week she died I dove head first into a new relationship. It had been a year...or maybe even two since my partner of several years left. And a month at most since my NYC fiasco. I was desperate to feel real, and have regular human contact. It was inevitable. I latched on to it with a vice grip, trying not to look the maw of death square in the eye. But it was impossible. She made it impossible. And I love her for it.
I owned my own life. I stopped relying on other people to define what my life was going to be. I ended the new relationship shortly after it had begun. It was an attempt at a band-aid when I needed a cast.
I sold my house. The house that was too big, too expensive, full of echoes of family that wasn't here anymore. I sold it, and took the nearly doubled profit to the bank. Literally. I bought a house that is 1/2 the size. It's not tiny, but it's modest. I almost had enough to pay cash for it, but had to take a very small mortgage. But it's exactly what I need. Part of my Aunt's legacy was leaving all her possessions, crafts, and finances to my dad, one of her only allies left on Earth. Through him, he passed on her gifts. Through her death, my life continued to morph into what I had always hoped for, but couldn't make possible on my own. I owe her everything.
I gave my ex the car I had been driving, which he had purchased, and repaid him the downpayment on the house. I got out from under the mortgage. I took my Aunt's car (where she had actually died), and decided to love it with the entirety of my being. Her gifts of pottery, jewelry, and paintings now fill my home, which she is responsible for making happen. I'm so conflicted, and anguished, and grateful to her I can't even process how much she has impacted my life.
My new home is just what it needs to be. Simpler. I've started replacing my home items with higher-quality artisan items instead. With the money I'm saving on my mortgage, I can now afford to support othert artists, to maybe prevent one of them from feeling the desperation like my Aunt did. She was a botanist, brilliant, a painter, a photographer, and a musician. And she was dying through all of it. I hope that through supporting their art, I can support their lives. Support them as a being. Love them in some small way. If my Aunt had had that, she might still be here. Or maybe the weight of her life would still have killed her. But all I can do is try.
I am giving to charities as a memorial to her. I think they're causes she would approve of.
I'm making more room for my own art of music, and for spending time with family and friends. I have plans to travel, and the finances now to do it. I know my circumstances are unusual, and I thank the Universe every day for all the ways it's been enriched by her. But sometimes you have to look at the path that's presented, and walk it. Even if it's full of obstacles. Even if it tears you down so you have to examine your core. Maybe exactly BECAUSE it does those things. Look around at the signs. See where the Universal arrows are pointing. Follow them. Always follow. The right choices are there. The simpler, easier life is there. It's a matter of opening our eyes to the possibilities of health, happiness and wholeness that keep us going forward. Or not. The choice is ours. And I, for one, have that vice grip on Life. All of it. Even the parts that are hard to look in the eye. I look, and I wait, and I love.
