One year ago, this week, I had my first serious brush with death; I was diagnosed with bilateral pulmonary emboli. That makes now a very good time to be honest about my life.
This year, I have a new boyfriend, MJ. He’s fantastic: smart, funny, attractive… However, since I’m being honest, I think he’d probably prefer a provincial, winsome woman who loves big, untrained dogs and has a “career, not just a job”– even if she hates it. In my head, this woman comes in a petite brunette package despite the fact that MJ has historically shown a penchant for redheads.
I have no job– none to speak of, anyway. This, of course, leads to having no money and, very soon, no place to live.
And anyone who reads this blog already knows about 7/7.
I must say, in many ways, last year seems to have been easier. I am glad I survived, but I have spent a very large portion of the past twelve months wondering why I did. This is infinitely complicated by the fact that all of the things I thought I was surviving for last year have, in essence, disappeared.
I guess I am doing what everyone does when they are forced to start over, but I’ve run out of steam. I need a break– just one good thing to happen to jumpstart everything else.
In the myth of Pandora’s Box (or Jar, depending on who is asked) all of the bad things come into the world before Hope. Perhaps Hope just moves more slowly and it will arrive in my life any day now. I’d like to believe that, but believing in a thing doesn’t make it so.
I believed my love life was headed somewhere very different from where I am now. I believed I would have a job and everything would be stable again. I truly believed that PE would be the worst thing to happen to me…
Nobody likes to be wrong.