Ok, I lied.
The new website is not up yet. This entry, my friends, is the final one.
I bought a domain name but then there was this thing called hosting and then something-sql got in the way, and then there was a lot of downloading and uploading and zipping and unzipping of files, and then nothing happened. Forgive me while I tussle through the tech-speak. Things will be up and running eventually.
In the meantime, I wanted to tie up the loose ends: namely, why now? Why is Sharon (finally) no longer in Mongolia?
Sharon In Mongolia was born out of a very difficult time in my life, when I was sadder and dumber than I’d ever been. Everything was couched in terms of escapism. I was dodging my small failures and impending adulthood/responsibilities. I was afraid of everyone and everything and I couldn’t get a handle on the fear.
Mongolia, for me, was/is a state of mind – a slice of structured avoidance, a fond set of memories, a time when I took a small break from feeling very lame and shaky. I needed something and I didn't know what it was, so I escaped to Mongolia. Now, I’m finally leaving because I don’t need it anymore.
What I've learned: there is a distinct difference between eschewing reality for adventure vs. creating adventure out of your reality.
So who is this person that Sharon has become? Right now, she’s not the prettiest sight. Right now, I’m eating refried beans straight out of the can and sporting a bib of pink sunburn on my chest, two testaments to the person I have become in the last handful of years: somewhat lazy and vaguely outdoorsy and living the bachelorette lifestyle that lends itself to a consistently-empty fridge (although I do have a nice selection of expired condiments). Maybe I’ve always been this person. Some part of me will never quite master the art of growing up and I am glad for it.
I'm ready to choose my own adventure.
The only certainty in life is its uncertainty.
And now, to tie up those matters of the heart.
I've been shockingly candid here, maybe too forthcoming. What's done is done. I’ve written about heartbreak. I've been in deep funks. I've been pretty angry. I've eluded to it on more than one occasion. I’ve even sworn it off a few times (here and here). Admittedly, the two aforementioned entries were as much about catharsis and holding myself accountable and giving myself a stern, public ultimatum as it was about provoking a reaction, any reaction, which is something that (most) women are prone to do.
You listen to enough concerned words and women’s lib and self-doubt that you start to feel sideways. You half-hear many things. Your thoughts grow thoughts. You feel, at times, terrible and embarrassed and terribly embarrassed.
You go about your business.
The takeaway is that, sometimes, even after all of the time and personal growth and self-flagellation, you continue to love someone, in your small, weird, nonsensical way, without rhyme or reason or rationale. And, finally, without expectation and self-judgment.
In time, I’ve stopped criticizing myself for it. There’s nothing to defend against. I wish him good things. Maybe we will keep in touch. Maybe this is the sunk cost of love and loving someone.
I’m trying to forge my own path. I've refocused. I've got little-sized and medium-sized and big-sized fish to fry.
Thank you, thank you, thank you, from the bottom of my heart.