Fulfillment

I am writing this on a sunny afternoon in our cozy little apartment; my dog is at my feet, our dwarf hamster, Timothy, is asleep in his nest. My husband has left for work, a gifted bouquet of yellow carnations sits on the dining room table in his absence. Over the past year I've driven myself almost to the brink of madness in losing M. and dealing with my divorce, merely existing among the hundreds of parcels and orders of my last job, before finally leaving to make a living tending to flowers, my thoughts nestled among the pervenche and yarrow and camellias. This job has given me a respite from the sorrow and grief of the last few years, not that my thoughts don't often drift to what once was--but I have discovered over the past few months that time has come to soften the pain that remains. 

I have always struggled with emptiness--in most people I think it would register as boredom, but I'm not really bored--I just feel empty inside. This is a peculiar trait most people with borderline personality disorder share, a trait that often manifests itself in self-harm, or addiction, or promiscuity. It is often said that people with this disorder act out in order to feel something other than nothing at all; I've spent the last decade of my life fleeing from the feeling with alcohol and often dangerous relationships, sometimes with lovers, more often than not with strangers. I have come to realize in my near middle age that contentment--so much more than happiness--is something fleeting, something I hold in my hands briefly, before watching it slip away, never understanding how to make it stay.

I have half a dozen books I've been trying to read for the past year; books on esoteric topics and interests not many people understand; histories on tuberculosis sanitariums, biographies of silent film stars, books about death. I thought about reading today, but I don't have much patience; I am often unable to sit still since so much has changed in my life; I feel as though I don't have the peace of mind to sit and read. I have been thus occupying my spare time with a growing collection of houseplants that I tend to lovingly with my husband; I often find pulling the dead leaves and wilted flowers cathartic, half wishing I could pluck out my own quiet discontentment and watch it scatter with the wind. 

Most evenings I take walks to the pond with my dog to see the geese; a blue heron often comes by to sit with us among the stillness--I watch for him every night, hoping he will return. In a slower part of town than the bustling near-downtown neighborhood in which I used to live with my ex afternoons settle among pine trees and the call of morning doves; a barred owl has come to live in the woods behind my work just blocks from our apartment, and I often hear it in the darkness of the mornings as I water the rose bushes. There are new wild flowers in this part of town, too--gone are the nightshade that used to fascinate me, replaced with sneezeweed, Carolina roses, goldenrod, Queen Anne's lace and a small purple flower I have yet to identify. I've started photographing my discoveries, each one eventually carefully researched and often discussed at length with my husband, who thus far doesn't seem to share my fascination. I've started baking and cooking more, too, from errands at local shops with exotic elixirs and spices that I've discovered, eager to take them home with me. 

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I just returned home and am currently sitting with my dog against a backdrop of spiced candles and the hazy blue of late afternoon. The house is silent except for a small fan sitting on the table; my husband will be home in a few hours, and I'm contemplating whether or not to continue watching the documentary we had started a few days ago. With my job outside in the hot Carolina sun, I often fall asleep whenever anything is on the television, curled up with my dog for yet another evening of quiet solitude. Maybe I will find contentment somewhere tonight. I struggle not to think of M., my thoughts drifting to our last summers together. The coffee shop sits vacant now in the Brightleaf District; if only I could return one last time to finish the crossword puzzle together over a lemon snap...ti voglio bene...