Tell it to the birds

“I told you that on my way to the Bay, I ran out of coolant in the middle of nowhere and you said nothing. Do you even care?” I texted.

“You’re a badass. You were telling me hours later and you were so non-chalant about it.” He replied. “It’s not you like you said, I ran out of coolant, I don’t know what to do! If you had, I would have said something.”

I could never in a million years imagine myself say, “I don’t know what to do” about anything.

Loving me must be one of the most difficult things. I know this. And I’m quite convinced he’s the only one who knows the real me and can still love me. Will still love me. But me thinking this isn’t a good thing. It immediately makes me put up a wall up to all men I meet. I wish I didn’t do that, the one who knows me is not around.

For days, after work, I crawl into bed and watch stupid romcoms with the pups and the cat curled up at my feet, and I can’t sleep. I toss and turn apologizing to the animals in the morning, “I’m sorry I kept you all up.”

After days of this I realized what my beef is. I wish I had a friend I could talk to about my trip to the Bay. But I have no one who would care to hear it. I have stories! But no one to hear them. I have to tell it to the birds and let it go south with them. But do I tell the warblers or the vireos or the goldfinch or the hummingbirds? Or do I bury it with fall’s lettuce and cabbage seedlings?

And it shouldn’t matter that loving me is difficult and damn near impossible. That’s why I have dogs, to love me unconditionally when men can’t, because I’m impossible.