I know we haven’t talked in a while and I wanted to catch you up. Oh, and make note of the new address on this envelope. I don’t live at home anymore. Or, more accurately, I have a new home now.
I know it seems sudden, that’s what everyone said. I guess that I was really good at pretending. But I don’t want to pretend anymore, George. I don’t want to put on a relationship that feels like an ill fitting coat you bought at a thrift store, that you tug at constantly to put in the right places. That doesn’t fit, but you throw a belt on and act like you meant to do it. It’s your style, you tell yourself, even though it really isn’t and , if it really WAS, you wouldn’t have to convince anyone of it, least of all yourself.
So George, I had to follow my heart. Well, my stomach. Is that where the feelings come from when you meditate? Do the words “ you gotta go” come peeking out from behind your ribs, is that why you feel the anxiety there first? Well, wherever the feelings lived, they finally spoke to me. And I finally listened. It seemed like so long ago, but when I look at the calendar, it hasn’t been even 2 months. I didn’t know I could do it, George. I had so many excuses. Have you ever tried to positively manifest anything when you have been an anxious wreck your whole life? But if you move one brick at a time, pretty soon you have a door through that wall. And you can step through the door and into another place. It’s so quiet here, George. Sometimes it makes me sad, but then I remember that a bit of quiet is pretty nice, and a good exchange for stress and bottled anger. There’s no anger in this house. There’s music, and bubble baths. There’s paint and houseplants. There’s a whole future ahead and I don’t know exactly where I’ll end up. I send you a postcard when I get there, George.