The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Men...

Dear Lorenzo,

It's 12:28 p.m. August 9th and I'm sitting down, eating my lunch (a big salad with blue cheese, walnuts, and two tablespoons of light balsamic dressing; only 10 WW points total!) listening to Tank and talking to you.

The listening to Tank is the problem.

I've been listening to Tank since my I'm-Ready-To-Move-Forward Memorial Day meltdown and haven't bothered listening to anything else since. 

I'm stuck.

I've been stuck.

This is what I do when things are really bad.

I freeze. 

When I am hurt (or scared, which is the case here) I do my best to keep everything in my life exactly the same as it ever was. Monday through Friday I wake up, workout, put in my eight hours a day as a contract administrator and my twenty-four hours a day as Amira's mama. When work ends I walk my dog, cook and clean and watch TV before falling into a deep, Benadryl-maintained sleep for the rest of the evening. And my weekend routine is just as predictable. I clean my house, I go to my online, Black Women's WW meeting, I fold and put away laundry (sometimes) before going outside to smoke and then withdrawing to my bedroom to camp out under the covers with my phone, my remotes, my dog and ALL of my fucked up fears and preoccupations.  

This is me, this is what I do.

And I know that it's time but... breaking free from these habits is HARD. 

Especially since I'm not always consciously aware of the fact that I'm retreating. 

But this time around, I am aware of it and Tank was the tip-off. 

As well you know, I LOVE to walk. I love getting outside and enjoying the gorgeous, lakefront Summer weather with my dog and Amira (on the RARE occasions that I can convince her to join us). 

Since Memorial Day I've been wearing my headphones again, BLASTING Tank while out on my daily walks, ensuring that I don't have to speak to anyone I don't want to talk to. It's what I used to do in the aftermath of your death. It was my method of staying isolated and distracted, even when I had to be physically present.

But what it's only taken five years for me to realize is that the problem was never with the outside world to begin with.

The problem resides within me.

I'm scared.

Hell, let's keep it real, I'm PETRIFIED in every sense of the word.

I hate change. And I hate when life doesn't go according to plan, especially since I had a REALLY good plan this time around. 

I was going to fuck around with a couple of these fuckboys I don't have to care about, and take ALL of my crazy out on THEM so that when I'm actually ready for a real relationship again (Well...kind of real...it'll never be what it once was with you) I'll have worked out all of the I-Can't-Believe-I'm-Interacting-With-A-Heterosexual-Man-Who-ISN'T-Lorenzo guilt and fear and whatever other emotions are going to accompany me on this next phase of my journey. 

I'd have worked out ALL of the crazy on someone I don't care about and who doesn't care about me in return.

It was the perfect plan. 

But as usual, life had other ideas.  

This is MUCH, MUCH worse than a fuckboy.

I could never fall for a fuckboy but I could seriously fall for Captain America and THAT IS NOT MY PLAN.

I've friendzoned this dude more than once now but either he's not getting it, I'm not saying it right, or...

I'm fucked.

Because despite my good intentions, I can't quite pull it off anymore; The "let's just be friends" shtick. 

I'm lying to us both. 

The absolute best part of cocooning myself under my covers for the past several years is how safe it was under there. Boyfriends don't get hit by cars and die when you're under the covers. Nobody gets sick, nobody gets hurt, all is safe and secure and cozy with Netflix and Hulu and ESPN and Duolingo and all of my other bullshit ass distractions but...

I guess life isn't supposed to be safe and secure and cozy no matter how much we want it to be.

I fell all the way apart after you died and that's okay, it's okay to fall apart after experiencing a loss like that but...

Ready or not (mostly not), I have to start moving forward again. 

Absolute fucking terror notwithstanding. 

So...

Here it goes...

I like him.

A lot.

I like a man who isn't you and...

I'm starting to be okay with that.

Five years, one month, and four days later.  

I'm going to do my best not to live in fear anymore.