Heel.

I feel like my broken shoe sitting next to my old front door waiting to be thrown away. Scratch that. I feel like its mate. I'm one half of a pair that's being thrown away because the other half is so damaged the whole pair must be scrapped.

I might be the broken one in the pair. I don't know. I can't tell anymore. I don't feel broken, not broken to the point of being tossed out anyway. I feel strong. I feel ready for the rest of my life to begin. I feel like someone who loved genuinely. I don't feel crazy. I don't feel like someone who could ever be with someone for money. I've never felt like a whore.

Then again I also felt loved. I don't know when that ended. I don't know when I became a storm to be weathered, a burden to be borne. Was I ever the partner that I thought I was? Did I ever help him? Ever comfort him? Make him laugh? Hug him when he was sad? Rent Rambo when he was sick? Was I ever that Katie that walked the dog, bought the groceries, did the laundry, cooked the food, cleaned the toilets, planned the trips, bought the guitar, played the tennis, drove three hours to listen to him play for 20 minutes, learned about stocks, sat in border traffic for hours day after day, loved the family, tolerated the dog (not ours, the other one), found friendship with the friends, rode the rollercoasters and listened to the same joke over and over again as I fell up the stairs for hours? Wasn't that me? Aren't I the girl who waited for a year, watching the news night after night, hoping there would be no mortar attacks near Tikrit? Wasn't it me who heaved herself out of the dark swirling mass of violence and crazy so I could be with my person? Wasn't that me?

Wasn't it?