I have no roots. Some say home is where the heart is, but my heart is in so many pieces I can’t imagine that’s the case. It wanders state to state, sometimes with the rest of me, sometimes on it’s own. I don’t know how, but I believe the lesson is coming, that connecting piece of understanding I’ve been missing . . . or ignoring. My chest hurts, a weight suspiciously similar to guilt, sitting squarely over my sternum indicating it’s me, not them.
I am the one who has chosen to leave again and again, tearing off another piece of my heart each time, feeling that pain but not understanding it’s source. Distance can dull the affects over time, but those wounds don’t ever heal. I am full of them–cuts, tears, bruises where I have ripped myself away from someone I love before I could love them too much, before I could fail. Looking back, I find it odd that I didn’t see quitting as failure.
It’s clear to me now that there isn’t a “more” or “less” in love. Love is love, infinite in size and strength; you cannot keep it small by starving it, you cannot make it stop by ignoring it, you cannot take it back once you’ve given it. Most of us believe we can do all of those things–that ignoring and abusing love will cause it to end. But it doesn’t and the pain is proof–the anger, the frustration, the fear–all proof of love.
I want roots. I want to belong to the people I love. Or rather, I want them to see that I do, to feel it. It isn’t a matter of loving, that I’ve always done. It’s a matter of showing my love. Old habits die hard, but I am determined. The hardest part is knowing that each cut and bruise in myself left a similar wound in someone else–some much deeper than others. How can I fix that? It seems impossible but I want to try . . . I am so afraid to try.