It reads,“What do I really want?”
The rest of the page is blank. I never answered it.
And I also haven’t been back to see Dr. Baskin since.
I pick up a pen from the desk nearby and settle back into the chair.
“What do I really want?” I tap the end of the pen on the open journal.
Over the past year, I haven’t changed. Over the past year, Ihaven’t moved on. Over the past year, I’ve listened to a very specific, very loud voice in my head that is angry and hurt.
This time, though, I listen to a different voice. Not the angry one, not the vengeful one, not the hurt one or even the lonely one.
This voice, strangely, has a twinge of hope in it.
I sit up.
I look down at the journal... and I start writing.
Day One of My New Life:
My New Life. I actually like the sound of that. New. Fresh. A do-over. Underneath I write...
What do I really want?
What did I want before everything in my life went pear-shaped? I close my eyes and inhale a deep breath, remembering, and when I open my eyes I write:
I want a job or career I love.
I want to feel creative and helpful and alive again. Which makes me think of the second thing I want.
I want friends. Real ones.
Being lonely sucks. Worse than that is being told who your friends need to be, or what kind of “friend” to be to fit in. Enough of that. I just want friends.
I think of the things I sacrificed when I moved here. Things I was happy to give up at the time.
I want to live in a new city.
I stare at that one, pen hovering over it like I’m ready to cross it out. It’s thrilling and terrifying at the same time. I press my lips together, but a smile sneaks through.
What if I moved to a new city? My stomach flip-flops at the idea.
But then I think of something else I’ve always wanted...
I want a dog.
Not a big dumb one. A smart one. One that sits with me and doesn’t bark at leaves blowing past the window.
A more serious thought hits me. I move the pen with purpose.
I want to figure out who I am—apart from a wife and a mom.
This feels big but it feels right to add it to the list. This feels like actual decisions are being made. I’m writing these as if I’m already doing them.
The last thing I write is simple.
I want a place where I fit in. I want a place where I belong.
