A Letter To May

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Dear May,

Where do I begin? It feels like just yesterday I was writing to April. Now we’ve barely had time to breath.

I’m taking advantage of my three day weekend and giving myself a mini vacation. I will be traveling back to see old friends and spend some time catching up with writing. If nothing else, May, I want this trip to reset my head space.

I have found myself listening to the song The Chain by Ingrid Michaelson on repeat lately. Although the song has nearly no connection with my life in regards to lost love, I feel the words still hold true.

My room feels wrong
The bed won’t fit
I cannot seem to operate
And you my love are gone

On more than one occasion, May, I have wished for a different life. I dream of a different house in a different city, calling me back home. I know this is nothing new, May. I know looking back on all these letters I will wonder why I felt the need to write the same thing over and over again while never taking action. I can only hope that when that day comes I will remember how I felt.

There are days when I can’t operate and I wonder if I’ll ever get back to normal. Do you feel like that, May, with your no-longer-Spring and not-quite-Summer? One day stormy, the next sunny with a high of 85.

I know that everything has it’s seasons, May, but this season seems to never end. I find myself wondering if I would be happier with my past than my present. All the while praying the future gets here soon. There is so much I want and most of it is just out of reach. I know that we live in an anything is possible world but sometimes, May, it just isn’t. There is no quick fix. There is no amount of cutting out Starbucks runs and avocado toast that will change that. Only time can do so.

I think my biggest fear this month, May, is that I may never make it home again. Of course, we could argue that I am home already. Home sitting on the couch writing this blog with the dog asleep at my feet. Home where I can sit around a fire pit with my family, playing guitar and roasting marshmallows. You could say I’m home, May.

I don’t want you to see me as ungrateful, May, because I am not. I feel blessed to be in the place I am but it still seems wrong. I do not fit here like I wish to fit. Maybe that is my lack of ownership, maybe it’s my desire to change, or maybe it’s just my broken brain wanting a place to go lick it’s wounds and heal. I may never know.

I was told when I was ready to change, then I will but I’m not sure everyone has that luxury. Sometimes there’s only now and there’s only facts. Sometimes we must sacrifice one thing for another, May. One day down the road we could look back and realize it was the wrong choice, but for now there is only this.

If there is only one thing I can say this month it will be this:

Forgive yourself, May, for being neither Spring nor Summer, and I will do the same. I will learn to forgive myself for trying to relive the past while trying to predict the future. I will learn to just be May flowers after April showers. I will learn to grow and heal. I will learn that compromise is not the same thing as sacrifice, only delayed gratification. We’ll get there, May. We’ll make it home again.

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