Maybe, just maybe, I’m the one that is broken. All along I’ve assumed it’s somebody else, and that I was there to help if I could, be there when I could, do what I could. But I wonder now if I am just selfish and do that all for myself. That I’m the one that needs the help, that needs something. I think that must be it. I think I’m the broken one.
Maybe most of us are broken in some way.
I can’t let things go. Possessions, feelings. Memories are not always enough. I keep boxes of things in the basement that likely don’t serve a purpose. A paperback collection by my favorite author, all books I’ve read and don’t have a lot of time to reread. My model trains, last set up decades ago. I have no place now, no time. No money to spend on that. If I did have the money and space I could start again. An old car in the not really a garage. Past glory that would take more time and effort and money again than I have.
Feelings, people I’ve known and still try to hang on to. Still try to be there for even though they are mostly gone. It didn’t end badly. But maybe it did end and I just haven’t realized it yet.
I can’t let go. Maybe I need to. Need to learn how to.
Maybe it’s me afterall … maybe.