They Won’t Break You

I’ve been accused of being an over-thinker by, like, many people. And they’re not wrong. I’m also a deeply-feeling person who observes and absorbs a lot as I move about in the world. My neurodivergent brain, though frustrating at times, has its gifts too, like super-strength pattern recognition. “Don’t overanalyze it,” I’ve heard countless times in my life. “Sure,” I think, “right.” 

So, I have the simple job of sorting out when my emotions have propelled me into overthinking, versus when I’m processing to make sense out of my experience after the emotions have settled.

Something jarred me emotionally this week and I jumped to immediately thinking “Here we go again, of course! I can’t do this again; I cannot handle this again,” about the inevitable emotions. The strange thing was, the emotions came and went, and my mind resumed the “I can’t, I can’t” scripts, only I didn’t feel like they were true anymore. Now I actually noticed them and they were so clearly just fears. 

It struck me how much more emotionally resilient I felt than I realized I could, yet that the narratives I formed years ago while slogging through the most challenging emotional weight I’ve ever endured, those still tried to protect me from something I don’t actually need protecting from anymore.

I am still a flawed, messy, and wounded human, but I’m certainly proof that therapy works; digging into yourself works. 

And if I had to sum up my most valuable lesson it’s the importance of the practice of sitting with what I feel. There have been many times I thought that what I was feeling would break me, I know now precisely because that’s how it felt. I had to change the story I tell myself to “it feels so heavy” and stop entertaining the thought that I would break. Big waves of emotion still come, you just get better at riding them and keeping your head above water.

Devour It All

My grandma is nearing the end of her [very long] life. We were never especially close, so for me seeing her body slowly dying is strangely humbling and grounding. What I mean is: it gave me some perspective on life, to be watching hers end. It brought some reflection and oddly gave me hope about my own life. If I were to have 60+ more years of it, what would I want that time to be about?

My grandma had always been someone who liked what she liked, wanted what she wanted, and was very put together — things I’ve not easily done in my life thus far. But she’ll also be remembered for being supportive, kind, and loving — things I value and aim my life toward. It stirred something in me, sitting with her while her state is so different than I’ve ever known her, and giving her the love and kindness I can right now. I haven’t even fully put my finger on it, but I left feeling a sort of poignancy. She lived this interesting, at times exciting, and certainly rich life, though not without its heavy burdens. And all of that is hers. 

Maybe what it brought to the surface in me is my philosophy on what life is about and that is two things: our experience and the relationships we have, where we make an impact. Those that grieve are proof of the latter, but so very much unknown is the former. 

My grandpa had left impressions on my life, pleasant and silly little reminders of him to glimmer in the mundane moments – "coffee doesn't taste good unless you spill a little" and the whimsy of defying physics by snagging your belt loop on a door handle. In spite of being madly in love with each other until he died, my grandma went about life so differently, so what reminds me of her is a bit different. She loved sweets, but was unfortunately always under the pressure of being a woman and measuring her choices. At family gatherings, it was always the brownie. She’d shyly have half of one…and always come back for the second half. And so I always think of her when I have a brownie, I say to myself “Eat the whole thing.”

In a way, that’s the lesson I take from her loving what she loved and wanting what she wanted: in life, devour it all. 

It Started in June

The body really does remember what we ourselves forget…

Tuesday, right away and all day I was anxious in this certain, specific way that usually means there’s a pent-up emotion that needs to come out. It’s frankly a bit miserable because I just have to ride it out until it releases. Usually it’s not something that’s in the forefront of my mind, instead a sneak attack of some repeat feeling that’s snowballed. 

I went to bed with it still churning, not letting my mind turn off to sleep. Thoughts of last summer came to mind, first memories that were good, then ways I felt so alone. But then intermixed was this grief from several summers ago. 

I recalled sharply how shaken I was. I co-opted my parents on a North Shore trip for a change of scenery. That night, I did my best to sob quietly on the floor on the mattress from the roll away bed we had to order to the hotel room. I was scared to be alone with such immense pain, it felt like it was swallowing me. 

That grief was so deep it took years to feel some semblance of normalcy. So intense it still reemerges with pieces I haven’t sat with, like the heaviness of that night on that mattress on the floor. So intense because I had trusted someone so much who utterly shocked me. Here and there I’ve been remembering the crazy-making of that time. How not myself I was, trying so hard to make sense of a thing that just wouldn’t make sense. 

A thing that all started in late June, several summers ago. And my body remembered before I could. 

Every Time

Every time I tell myself it's the last time. Every time I feel like I can't survive it again. 

Eventually though, my relentless heart yearns. Somehow it keeps believing that something good is out there for me, even though time and time again, being hopeful only gets me hurt. And each time it makes it harder to continue to hope. 

People will say kind things, like they believe that a good heart won't go to waste...but I don't. Because I have given everything they could want, they'll say, and still toss me aside, let me go, push me away. I find myself more afraid to keep hoping that my heart – that I could be chosen, than I am of the pain of being unwanted. 

Because it's not about not being good enough or believing I'm unlovable. If I'm honest, it seems entirely random. Coincidental. I don't believe in fate or destiny, or things being meant to be. I think we all just collide. And I'm increasingly unsure, each time, if I can keep trying to collide with someone in hopes that maybe they will choose me. 

Any of You was Me

I cannot see you here –
a poor figment of a guardian.
No more present than magic. Or luck.
If you are here, you are a liar and this is a masquerade.
Prayers placed futile on our lives as wishes on coins in a fountain.

If you were there, it just confirms you watched me drown. 

Again and again.
And so there is no "later" that you can come, that I would find relief.
I'm vexed to think when and how you'd choose to lift a finger 

– it must be heavy, such burden of power.
Why should I awe at you, if whether you're here or not, everything is the same.
What love is love that looks on its object's suffering with indifference, unmoved.

Now I have more faith in myself, than I'd ever had in you
because I was always there,
and any of you 

was me.

home again.

Loving and missing. My heart keeps on longing to reunite with your presence. Panging. For your laughter. Hungry for your gaze. The way that being next to you felt. It's like I haven't been home in a long time. Like I'll never be home again.

All Sorts of Confused

It's coming up on a year and I feel all sorts of confused.  I continue to be in this strange, disorienting limbo.  I openly talk about and make light of all the woes of dating because I don't really want to be doing it.  I know that I don't want to be alone for the rest of my life just because what I thought was the big love of my life actually destroyed me.  But as it turns out, it's incredibly difficult to heal from that destruction.  And it's incredibly terrifying to think of letting anyone try for that with me again.  I can't fathom trusting someone.  I'm in disbelief that anyone will make the memories fade to the background. 

I've always prided myself on knowing how to sift through it all in dating.  Sure, there are awkward moments or things that are hard to say, but I've always been able to tell when someone isn't for me.  Aside from intentional questions and keen observation, usually there's this undeniable sense in my gut.  I can't feel that anymore.  Some men seem kind, smart, funny, are attractive, and have it together, but I feel nothing at all.  I find myself lost in not knowing what to do.  For the first time in my life, I know without a doubt I am scared to be vulnerable.  Not even just scared, I don't want to and I don't feel it.  I'm scared in general.  It's almost like I don't even know how to take dating seriously because I'm just...broken.  I was the most vulnerable I've ever been toward someone and it broke me. 

Yet, I try because I'm lonely and because I think, maybe somehow someday I'll find a way to be open.  Maybe I'll strike luck and someone truly good will find me.  But I don't really believe that.  And I don't know anymore how I'd recognize that.  Even the kindest are capable of changing you with their hurt.  Then I think, maybe I'll just wait for someone to fall for me, then I'll see if I want them too.  Though my integrity would never let me do that!  

My feelings feel the same as they did a year ago and I don't really want to wait for them to change if they haven't in that long.  Yet I don't know if or when my gut will speak to me again.  Maybe it's still in shock, too.  I'm confused, lonely, exhausted, and scared, nearly a year later.