I have a confession. I have never been good at it. I can compartmentalize and sequester, and even fool myself that it doesn’t matter, but when that moment comes, that final moment of ending, I am always afraid. Even if I know it is the right thing, I cannot easily look at a person and say goodbye.
The interior monologue goes something like: Am making the right decision? Am I risking the only good thing in my life? My stomach churns, and the little high-pitched whine in the ears deafens, my palms get hot and sweaty. Why do you have to hurt some one? Is this a pattern? Idiot! Am I capable of this? I was clear from the beginning…but that doesn’t make the time together less important, it just makes it finite. There goes the compartment creator again. It scrambles my mind and heart.
Afterwards, given my nature, I want to call. Are you okay? I know I shouldn’t pick– the wound that is no longer us still too fresh for a scab, but I cannot help it. I contemplate the rawness and don’t sleep. I do not call.
My nature is one where I have many irons in the fire, and I am good or better than average at things I strive to learn. I am a passionate binger. I don’t want to choose one thing to be passionate or great at (I am not sure I have that greatness anyway). It limits me and broadens me at the same time. Such self indulgence, and as my son called me out: Nice to have only first world problems. No flies in the eyes here, just self loathing and pity.
I will return to Asia in silence and know this will be a time for recovery and healing.
Take two slices of good bread, and toast them lightly. Slather butter and add honey to taste. Serve with a strong cup of tea. read a book and sleep dreamless.