my bloomingdale

Today I threw a pillow into a wall. Really hard. And it felt fucking great.

I’ve been bottling a lot over the last two months. I’ve been doing that thing that I do where I’m desperately clinging for dear life onto anything I can grasp, anything that’s concrete, anything at all.

And it hasn’t made me happier; it has only made me more confused.

Today I did a search on padmapper for apartments, except I didn’t limit my search by location. I feel like I’m ready to go anywhere. I’m glad that my landlord made sure that I had a new gate. I feel much safer now than I did when I didn’t have a gate or a proper door. But I still don’t have a proper door, and I don’t understand what’s taking so long, and the longer it takes, the longer I feel like I have to cope with the trauma of having my home broken into in the first place. To make matters worse, there was a flood last week. Just a little flood, but just enough floodwater to fuck shit up and ruin my week.

I know I’m not usually so vulgar, but I think I really have to be right now.

The break-in, the identity theft, the new challenges that come with parenting a toddler, the flood, the campaign that thought it could. It’s all weighing on me. On top of that, I feel like my choices are constantly under scrutiny by a heteropatriarchical society that just doesn’t get single motherhood – that sees it as a flaw or a source of misfortune, that puts added pressure on me to compromise what I want to meet its definition of family, even if it’s not right for me or Max (or Lucy).

I’ve had friends who I thought would be major parts of Max’s life, and not all of them have consistently been around him, but this inconsistency doesn’t matter to people; it’s romantic relationships that matter, for some arbitrary reason that no one can define.

I think I can define it: You, perhaps unknowingly, believe that there’s only one way to have a family, and for some reason, my way doesn’t fit.

I am stressed, but I’m happy with my perfect little family – and with all the villagers who have come into our lives in loving ways. There have been so many.

I think that’s the hardest thing about really leaving. This apartment – with all its flaws, with all its history – is my home. I’m happy here. I love Bloomingdale. I like being the lady that neighbors can come to for cookies and beer. I like being well-known on my street, in my corner stores, at my parks. I love the community that I’ve built here, in the very strange three years that I’ve lived in this lovely, tiny, doorless but gated basement apartment. I’d hate to leave this place.

I hate to leave on such a cliffhanger, but I have to complete day two of my 30-day fitness challenge.

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