Historically, I haven’t been very good about sharing my space since my divorce. Not just my living space, but my emotional space, too. I needed distance between myself and everyone around me sometimes so I could think straight and feel safe. I guess that’s why running 20 or 30 miles is so attractive to me.
Having my own space gives me freedom to find out what I like and who I am. It gives me permission to leave clothes on the floor and cabinet doors slightly ajar. I get to buy my brand of peanut butter and I never have to wait for the shower. The remote belongs to me, and no one is allowed to fall asleep on my couch with a glass of scotch in front of the porn channel (unless I feel like it, which I never do).
I can go where I want, when I want. I can eat pop-tarts for dinner and ice-cream sandwiches for breakfast without facing judgement. No one’s bad mood will ever set the tone for my day.
When finally I had extra space in my house, I filled it up with stuff – boxes full of junk in the garage, clothes on my bed, and too many shoes in my closet. There isn’t room for anyone here besides me, and I’ve liked it that way.
With extra space in my soul, I stuffed it full of food and online dating sites and sappy love stories on television.
Opening up and feeling safe has been a pain-staking process that didn’t happen overnight. And I don’t think I’m done. But honestly, all I can think about today is filling up every square inch of all of my spaces with him. (Well, maybe I need just a tiny bit of wiggle room for myself, but not much. And my shoes. I love my shoes.)
I’m going to clean the garage.