The Crying Couch

I affectionately refer to my hand-me-down reclining couch as the “crying couch”. It’s seen many tears, tissues, and “woe is me” moments. Since moving out on my own I’ve become more in touch with my emotions, or rather I now have the privacy that I’ve craved to express them freely. I dance like I’ve never danced before, laugh out loud when I think of something funny, and cry without the worry of having to explain my tears. Because, to be honest, sometimes they have no explanation, they just arrive. And when they do, I sit on the crying couch -roll of toilet paper in hand- and let them fall. Without holding back, without explanation, without an audience.

The past few months have been an interesting adventure. There have been ups and there have been deep, dark, down moments. I keep a journal next to the crying couch and when my eyes have nothing left to shed, I pick it up and write. Or sometimes I just doodle. It helps.

Being single these past 6 months has been both fantastic and frightening. Exciting and ridiculously frustrating. The same can be said for entering the dating scene all over again.

Again.

Ugh.

But in case this post seems heavy on the melancholy, don’t fret. There is much more laughter, dancing, excitement, and anticipation of the future than crying couch episodes.

Trust me.

I’ll tell you about my "dancing kitchen" next time.