I wanted to post a new piece that was up-beat and chirping with new possibilities, enthusing about the coming year. And I have written a shedload over the last couple of weeks. About contemporary issues and ideas and planned adventures. About friendship and vegetarianism, and being somewhere cold for Christmas. But I end up sitting at my laptop after downloading all the stuff in my head… and know there is more to write. That not to acknowledge how I am really feeling would be to negate the last few months, ignore the journey, and not be honest about this odd sadness I still seem to be carrying in a quiet, small corner of my soul.

So I have a backlog of drafts, all ready to go. The cathartic process of venting or fleshing out my thoughts on Friends, and Alcoholism, and Christmas, and School Reunions… and this. This one. About how I am feeling. I may even hit ‘publish’. And as usual, it doesn’t matter who reads it. Whether it makes sense. The healing is in the creation, taking the jumbled-upness in my heart and smoothing it out into a single straightened thread that has strength but also a simplicity, beneficial once it is in context. I will be embarrassed, and know shame in still publically waffling on about being heart-sore and lonely and missing someone that never really existed. And I will ruefully have to admit wondering what the Slow-burn Guy is up to, that I would so like to hear his kind voice at the moment.

I’ve got a new job, I have been chatting to people, re-building relationships with friends, making new ones, and writing a Wish List for the first time in years… so I am exploring, working forward. I’m not stuck. Not spending time in retrospective stagnation. I am excited about the challenges I have put in my diary for 2016. And am feeling physically healthy and energised. Lost weight, going to the gym. Enjoying fresh air and good conversation.

And today I am sitting here in front of an open fire, drinking a glass of merlot for lunch, plans with friends later this afternoon. Know there is so much good yet to discover. But something isn’t quite right. Yet. Something is off, not in it’s place. I feel uneasy. Queasy. Maybe still a little heart-achey? And I wonder. Is it because I know my day would be guaranteed a smile if it included a message from the errant Player, the Highwayman?

Meeting two great guys effected me this year. Catalysts. And I suppose I am still suffering from emotional coitus interruptus, an end before a real beginning. Like a huge effervescent well of positive, focused, happy, nurturing, energy that had been built up, needed release. And I was ready to share… uncork (no euphemism intended)… but then it wasn’t needed. Wanted. My spirit was rejected. And I have had to push it all down again. Contract. Contain. Which has left me edgy, wound. I am slowly finding peace again. The energy is dissipating, changing form. But it has left me with an ache in my chest. The side-effects; a small but intense fizzing in my stomach. Lessening, though there nonetheless. And I seem to recall this is what a broken heart feels like. But it’s me that broke it. My fault. It is me that trusted the words they spun. Me that allowed feelings and excitement, and the idea of possibilities to shake up my inner combustibles. And time eases off the pressure. Expels some of the potency.

And I will be super fine. I continue to resist the urge to contact or connect. I refuse to force myself into a life where I am not wanted. No matter how sad I become. I do not need pity. I only requested friendship, casually declined, thoughtlessly rebuffed. I have other things to distract me, concentrate on. Besides, my glass of wine needs refilling. And there are people who think it a gift to raise their own glass with me.