Chapter Eighty Seven; Hay Bales and Farm Girl Dreams (And Why You Should Never F *ck with a Writer)

In the recesses of my soul's memory I harbor a dream.

I am not sure when I first dreamed it. It just seems like it was always a part of me. Somewhere within myself, I felt that out there in this world, was someone who I could love. Someone who would love me. And a life that we could build together.

I didn’t have the perfect childhood, but who does? Mine included a lot of yelling. And other loud stuff that would send this braided little farm girl in cut off jeans running out to the hay bales to escape.

And in that fragrant hay, the aroma of summer, far enough away from the farmhouse where the voices were faint, when all my tears ran out, I would reach into my heart and pull out that dream.

That someday my life would not look like this. I would find love.

And I would be free.

All through high school and college the dream was there. I even married someone I knew was not him. I am not sure why. Approval from others. Fear probably.

But I finally grew up enough to reclaim my life, and release myself so I could be free to find that dream. To find him. Wherever he was.

And now. I am trying to just live my life and not obsesses about it.

I look for him though. I do.

Now that I can.

Behind brown eyes, blue eyes, green eyes. Men my age and even men who are probably too young for me. The romantic in me thinks, well, maybe he is ten years younger or something and that’s why I couldn’t find him until now?

I know. So foolish.

The last guy who stumbled into my life is 13 years and 7 months younger than I am.

That is exactly how long my marriage was.

I didn’t tell him that because it seemed kind of stalker that I had done the math. But it made me pause.

And wonder.

Maybe I was just waiting for him to get here all this time?

I am kind of a sentimental fan of fate and the universe and a larger design I guess. I think it’s just me trying to make sense of how I ended up 36-years-old and still by myself.

And alone in a big house (on the weekends my children are with their father).

With a couple cats.

God, don’t let this be my fate.

And so here I am, stumbling around. Trying to raise a couple of amazing kids, be devoted to my job, take care of a household, pay the bills, and maintain a life.

But on the edges of that life?

Like I said.

I look for him.

So far all I have found is myself being far too picky. And then? Far too trusting. And then? Far too timid. And then, of course, I end up just being far too intense.

Much. Too soon.

Sigh.

I don’t know what to do. The few (unlucky) guys who I’ve actually felt a connection with in the past year (all two), well, I have handled it very badly. I am so scared of doing something stupid, that I second guess everything and end up doing something extremely idiotic.

They really have no idea who I am. I give so many mixed signals, the poor guys couldn’t find the real Audra if they had a global positioning system honing right in on my heart.

On top of all of this, I have this hard candy coated shell all around myself. It is pride and it is fear.

And if and when it does break, I am so hurt all I can do is lash out and blame them. It is like I am saying, “Look at what you did! You broke my protective coating and now all this sappy sugar in me is on the floor and I don’t want you to see it. So I am just going to cry and call you names to distract you from the fact that I you might have gotten a glimpse of the real me for a moment!”

That is how I go back to those hay bales.

That is how I run away.

So here I am again. It’s thirty years later and I am once again alone. And crying.

And still trying desperately to hold on to that dream.

But I think I need to quit trying so damn hard to find him. Because odds are, based on my overly romanticized decisions, misguided assumptions and eyes wide shut missteps in my last attempt?

There's another more important person I need to find first before I can truly continue my search for him in earnest.

Myself.
***************************

The broken part of me warned this guy who tripped into my life, “Don’t fuck with a writer.”

And here’s a note to him:

I didn’t say that because I am going to slander you to the point where you will fear the word Google for the rest of your natural born life. It’s because those of us who were born to write know how to put our souls into words. And it is not just our own souls we write about. We carry the burden of all humanity. For our journeys are not unique in their pain and uncertainty.

So yeah. I did mean it when I said don’t fuck with a writer. And now you know why.

Because my tears . . . are everyone’s tears.

I just use mine.

As ink.