My feet are torn apart from standing up all day in shoes that were supposed to be comfortable, I can feel a tinge of hoarseness in my throat from talking too much and too loudly, my dress pants are still half a size too tight, I didn’t use the bathroom for six hours straight on Wednesday, and my happiest moment this week was when I climbed into bed at 9:30pm to give myself just over eight hours of sleep.
Now that I’m finally living it again, I’m less sure than ever that this is what I was to do with my life.
My weakness is in momentary regrets, as I question myself before allowing the proper distance from these events.
I tell myself that I will keep teaching. That I will let me job consume my life again and allow myself to believe that it will get better. Quitting is not a consideration. It is only—not even—one year.
But if this were a relationship, I’d end it immediately—like I did with the English boy two weeks ago when things got tough yet again—and as I still find myself aching for him, I wonder if my strategy is all wrong.
Is working at an imperfect job for a year just as silly as staying in an imperfect relationship for the same amount of time?
With very little agenda beside escaping loneliness, I coerce the English boy into talking to me today and then regret it as my heart wrenches in my chest for the rest of the day. He is happy in the simplicity of singledom as I feel my resolve continue to weaken. There is so much of us that I don’t want back, but right now, all I want is that uncertainty back. Because at least then, there was hope.