Don't. You. Dare.

I sat in my car, weeping like I hadn't done in months, and I wrote this text message:

"I fucking hate it when I can tell someone feels sorry for me."

Then I took some laddery breaths, let the tears sit on my face, and I deleted the message without sending it.  Because, really, what was I trying to do but get someone different to feel sorry for me?  Someone whose attention maybe I felt like I couldn't get any other way.  So I put down the phone and cried it out on the way home.

This is what started it:  recently I have come to the conclusion that I don't want conventional.  I don't want the job managed and directed by someone else, I want the life created by me.  I want this, even with the insecurity, anxiety, and in-car crying jags.  I want all of this, even though I know this makes it more challenging for me to find the partner I want.  (You know, the person who will make an effort to be with me even when I'm on my cycle and sex is not going to happen, even when my schedule doesn't match the standard adult corporate work schedule.)

In order to create this life, I need to let go of lots of things.  I've pretty well let go of the hard ones (caring what other people think, lifelong assumptions about what success means,) and now comes the more labor intensive ones.  I have started giving away most of the tchotchkes and fancy things that were surrounding me in my home, and I finally made the decision to move to a cheaper place.  

I went in to visit with my real estate agent to talk over the current condo market and how I should go about getting my place ready to sell.  You may recall her -- she's the one whose first reaction to the divorce news was: "But you're so pretty!"

We sat down and went over all the comps she pulled for me, talked about my building in particular, and occasionally butted heads over unrealistic things.  (No, I will not pay thousands of dollars that I don't have for someone to stage my condo.). It was immediately clear to me that she didn't quite know how to handle this situation.  House poor seller, trying to build a business, with little to no time or money to put into the prep of the condo, and no partner to pick up the phone when she was busy with a client.  Her conversation started getting peppered with "I know"s and "It's difficult"s.  She said these things because she didn't know what else to say.  She felt sorry for me, she felt pity.  And although this came from a good place in her heart, she didn't understand that pity is the last thing I need.  That I am quite contented with my single life (most of the time) and that the absolute loss of the conventional dream with the condo in downtown (über suburb) was not a tragedy for me.  It was/is a step into the future.

But I felt a little sick and off that day anyway, so I didn't have the mental strength to do anything but keep it together until I could get to my car and cry from sheer frustration, then from feeling sorry for myself because I couldn't think of anyone to call and get coffee with at that time of day.  Fortunately, my literary training kicked in and I recognized the irony before I got home and had to discuss my real estate plans with my new potential landlord.  Water, food, and a midday nap completed the reset, and now I can think of five or more people who I could have called.  

Don't feel sorry for me, real estate lady, because my life has not followed the conventional path that yours has. Don't feel sorry for the bumps and bruises I've had this past year.  And don't you fucking dare feel sorry for me that I have chosen to sell my place.  This is my choice.  And I will also choose not to feel sorry for adventures I have had that you have missed.