This Time...

I’m sitting in a library parking lot crying, trying to write, but wholly unable to. In order to write I need to sit in my feelings, and right now that’s the last place I want to be. It’s times like this that I regret driving such a conspicuous car. A man with white hair and kind eyes calls to me from two stalls over, admiring what immaculate shape itʻs in. Apologizing for the intrusion, he asks what year it is.

“Those were considered a full size vehicle for their time,” he remarks, “incredible how much excess we’ve arrived at,” and gestures at the petite form of my Datsun juxtaposed against his own.

I wonder if he can tell I’ve got tear streaks. I glance in the rearview mirror. A bit disheveled. Perhaps, noticeable.. But not so much as thirty minutes ago, when, mid sob, I looked up to see a group of middle schoolers staring back at me…

I turn 30 next week, and I’m sitting in a vintage station wagon on a “school day” in the library parking lot crying because, once again, I am foiled by my anxious fucking attachment issues. I’ve been at this infuriating stage of self awareness, where I’ve done enough work on myself to see my patterns, but not enough to stop seeking partnerships in those who replicate my childhood wounding.