We've been dream sold about what it means to grow.
All the self-help tomes and personal journey movies would have you think that growth is a thing that happens when you go to a beautiful place and watch a gorgeous sunset, the vastness of the earth’s marvels humbling you, making you feel small, putting your problems in perspective. Or when you hit some milestone birthday. Or when you fall for someone that makes the very edges of your soul dance. There’s a couple tears, sure, but they're silent, glamorous tears cried on lush sheets or in a circle of sister friends.
But here's the real talk of it: growth hurts. It hurts you down to your bones. It makes you weary, and unlike much of the other things in the world that make you weary, it follows you home to your refuge to invade your solitude. It rearranges everything it touches. You're on that beach looking at that sunset because you're scattering the ashes of someone you love. You found someone who makes your soul dance because you once felt the excruciating loss of someone who sang a song your heart will never sing again. And the crying isn’t elegant, restrained crying among your friends; no, your friends are busy trying to keep their own lives strung together with old bubble gum and tape and your tears are big, ugly sobs that reduce you to a trembling mess on a dirty floor in your apartment that becomes another thing to berate yourself about failing at even as you cry yourself dehydrated.
Growth is good. More importantly, it's inevitable if you're doing this life thing right. But growth is not Eat, Pray, Love. It's not exotic getaways and existential questions and yoga. Growth is unwinding the tangled weaves of the tapestry of your childhood. Sometimes growth is therapy and the right dosage of meds that ease your depression or anxiety. Growth is every minute you swallow like a dry pill, willing yourself not to call someone you're trying to let go of. Growth is pain. It's uncomfortable. It's a bright, blinding light on the darkest places of yourself that you may very well have to stand in alone. Growth is losing people, places and things that once brought you comfort, love, security. It's stepping forward 99 times and nothing being beneath you and still stepping forward a 100th time despite all evidence pointing towards the fact that you're a dumbass for doing so.
I don't believe in dream selling, so I'll tell you what I know; growing is fucking painful. And not in a this-is-uncomfortable-for-me kinda way. It's a long lasting, backbreaking, soul crushing, rolling-around-in-bed-in-the-middle-of-the-night-asking-God-why-He'd-have-you-endure-such-a-thing feeling. It feels unbearable for long stretches of time.
Except you will bear it. Because your pain, while real and valid and intense, is not unique. Because other people are bearing it along with you. Because other people have bared it before you. That’s what we should be telling each other.
Here's the other thing no one tells you; one day you will lay on the bleached sands of a beach and marvel at a sun seemingly sinking into clear water that will cast so many colors across the sky you won’t know the names for them all. And it won't mean anything. Not because it’s not beautiful, but because you won't need it to. You’ll be free to just appreciate a sunset, a birthday, a love for just what it is; not a deeper message from the cosmos for you to decipher. It’s just a sign that growth is happening anyway, all around you, with or without your permission. Just as it always has.
Someone who once bared this all shared this with me. I hope you have someone to do the same. And if you don't, now you have me.
Wednesday, July 2, 2014
We've been dream sold about what it means to grow.
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
I was giving her my usual even tempered, objective advice. And I could tell she didn’t want to hear a single word of it by how intently she was focusing on guzzling her mimosa.
“I mean, I know you’re right,” she tells me, clearly exasperated. “But it doesn’t feel right. I mean, it just doesn’t-“
“It’s not what you wanna do.”
“It is NOT what I wanna do.”
“But that doesn’t make it right.”
“But should I care more about right than I do about what I want?”
“Theoretically. I am not living a theory, La.”
She exhales hard, and it’s my turn to focus on my drink. She and I have these conversations often, her wanting to lean in to her tempestuous nature, and me encouraging her to temper it. Because she tends to fuck things up.
“Don’t you ever get tired of it?” She asks me without a hint of accusation or resentment in her voice.
“Being so…together. Controlled. Knowing what to say. Doing the right thing. Being objective. Dealing in logic. Don’t you ever get tired of it?”
It’s my turn to exhale hard and wonder how she knew that I have been having this very conversation with myself.
“Yes,” I reply hesitantly, not sure where she’s going with it. “Yeah, I do. Sometimes.”
“So, why do it?”
“Because I believe it’s the best way to conduct myself.”
“Bullshit. Because it’s the best way you know to control yourself.” I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “Listen, I love this about you. I envy it. Because I can’t operate that way. And we both know the results of that,” she says, alluding back to the latest mess she’s made in her life that brought us to this conversation.
“But don’t you want to just do things? Rather than plotting and planning and organizing and executing. Just feel things sometimes? Rather than think things? Do you ever just feel?”
“Of course I feel things-“
“No, I know you feel things. You’re human. What I mean is, do you ever just give yourself over to what you feel without intellectualizing it to death? What’s the last thing you surrendered to?”
I don’t have an answer for that, and she knows it. She lets the silence linger, sitting back in her chair with a smug smirk as I continue to fidget.
“To be fair,” I counter, “your life isn’t exactly a shining testament to the wonders of feeling.”
“That was a low blow, you bitch.”
“But, true though.”
“Ain’t the point.”
“Making decisions based on facts rather than feelings just makes more sense to me. Feelings change. Facts don’t.”
“That’s true. But then when do you get to feel, La?”
“I feel stuff!”
“No, you don’t. You allow about as much feeling as you think you can handle. And then it’s all about logic.”
“I don’t understand your point.”
“You is a stubborn bitch.”
This is all true, of course. I used to feel a great deal. All the time. All the feelings. And I could barely function. Logic, objectivity, even temperedness became a safe haven for me; a way to for me to communicate clearly and effectively, a means by which to get what I needed. And ultimately, with or without my permission, another way for me to control myself.
But the point is, nobody asked this bitch all that.
“So, what would you have me do?” I ask, half joking and half serious. “Show up at a man’s place of business on a date with another man to unnerve him?”
She side eyes me, but is silent, since she did this very thing to a chef she was dating last month, and followed that little stunt with an argument in the middle of the street.
“I am not saying be petty, though it wouldn’t kill you to be petty for once in your overly goddamn noble life. Although, for the record, that shit felt GREAT.”
“That kinda shit doesn’t feel great to me.”
“How the fuck would you know? You refuse to feel out loud.”
I suppose that too is true. I am prone to feeling only as much as I can rationalize as appropriate. Which, objectively, is stupid.
“You are so goddamn good all the time. Don’t you get tired of it? Don’t you get tired of being reasonable and appropriate all the time?”
“Of course I do. Just not enough to shred a $2,500 bag and ship it to a man’s office,” an offense she is also guilty of.
“HA! That was a good one.”
“You are completely monkeyfuck crazy.”
“Perhaps. But I will tell you this; everyone in my life knows how I feel about them. What I’d do for them. Who I am. Can you say the same?”
I turn my attention back to my drink.
“I’ll make you a deal,” she says to me, her eyes dancing mischievously. “You’re turning 30 this year. You need to do something different. And you have been kinda hinting around this for the last year anyway. But you may as well go big or go home.”
“Here’s the deal; for the next year, I want you to make terrible fucking decisions. Awful. Do whatever you want. Whether it makes sense or doesn’t. Do stuff without thinking or plotting or analyzing. Just do stuff. Worry about it later. Feel some stuff. Don’t think stuff. Just let go. Surrender to something or someone.”
“I don’t do surrender particularly well.”
“I know. That’s why you’re gonna do it. Just make some bad decisions. For a year. And see where you end up. Because I will bet you a spa day it won’t be so bad.”
“What’s in this for me?”
“Um… the awesome shit that comes with not doing the right thing.”
“So, for this year you are making horrible decisions, I will make better decisions. I will think things through. I will control my emotions and my actions. I will be all good and noble and objective like you.”
“You’ll never make it.”
“I will if you help me.”
“I don’t need your help making bad decisions. I’ve made it this for without a criminal record.”
“You know, I don’t think you need my help. Because I think deep down underneath it all, you are perfectly capable of making bad decisions and enjoying them. I think you are tired of being so good and in control all the time. And I think really deep down, beneath all the good and the cool and the detachedness, you’re a beautiful little mess.”
We regard each other for a while, sizing the other up and not saying anything, but knowing we both need a bit more of the other in us.
“Okay,” I tell her uneasily. “Ok. You gotta deal.”
“A whole year?”
“A whole year.”
“Well, in that case,” she says, raising her glass, “here’s to The Year of Bad Decisions.”
“Good decisions for you.”
“Yeah, but we’re gonna focus on the fun part right now. Raise your glass, bitch.”
To the year of bad decisions.
Thursday, April 24, 2014
I was 25 before I finally admitted how fucking miserable I was. How the years of just surviving, of barely making it, of scraping by, had made me weary down to my bones. How badly the heartbreak had made me equal parts hard and fragile.
The admission itself was hard. It felt like a spectacular failure; a mess of my own making from making bad choices and not practicing self-care. But there I was; 25 and miserable, miles from the people I loved, far from where I wanted to be, heartbroken and tired and working a job I hated that did not stretch me. I was single by choice, leery of letting anyone in, committed to remaining warm and detached. I can’t remember who was in the picture at the time, who I’d compartmentalized into a specific role- lover, companion, arm piece- whether that was the part they wanted to play or not. I do remember random crying fits, long stretches of insomnia, weight gain and hair loss, the pallor of my skin as though the misery had become a second skin I could not peel away.
I don’t remember when I decided I could not live this way anymore. I don’t even know that it was a conscious finite decision, or if it was just the realization that at 25 I was too young to resign myself to a life weighed down by unhappiness, that having to will myself out of bed in the morning, and needing to tuck myself into it immediately after exhaustedly trudging through every day, was not the way I wanted to live. Not if I wanted to actually live.
The last five years have been heavy lifting. It has been slicing open old wounds to drain the poison I trapped beneath the surface in my haste to appear whole. It’s rebreaking my bones along the fractures healed haphazardly so that I may set them correctly. It’s been cleaning and clearing. It’s been the reappearance of old apparitions I ran from rather than faced and expelled. And the introduction of new spaces for my soul to feel safe in. It’s been a breaking down and building.
This year on my birthday, unlike last year, I woke up happy. Contentment and gratitude flooded my body like the sunshine through my gigantic windows. I prayed a prayer of gratitude. I wrote my annual list of things I am grateful for. I got up and sang and danced to Stevie Wonder. I spent the day surrounded by people who love me, drinking whiskey and having good convo, and doing other things I won’t immortalize in print. And that night while I laid in bed, spinning slightly from the liquor, I thought about how far I’ve come.
I have cried. I have fought. I have been disappointed and I have been loved. I have moved. I’ve been weakened. I have persevered. I’ve been broken and I’ve been buoyed. I’ve been cold and I’ve been crazy. I have laughed and I have fucked and I have made love and I have hurt people and I have smiled, and been resentful and been overwhelmed by pride and anger and gratefulness. I have changed. I have gotten all that I prayed for.
I have lived.
Make no mistake about it, I am not whole. I am not healed. I am not where I want to be or whom I want to be when I get there. But I am further than I ever thought I’d get. And I know how to get there. And I know that I will get there. And I’m willing to do the work.
Bring on the dirty 30.
Wednesday, March 12, 2014
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
This is my last thought before I go to sleep. It hangs over the bed, turning the air around it crisp and cool. I toss and turn underneath it all night.
Something is missing.
This is my first thought when I wake up in the morning. My eyelashes have barely left their perch atop my cheeks before the thought rises over the horizon of my brain, sending signals to my limbs to look for this something. My feet hit the carpet and I push the thought away, stumbling to the bathroom, brushing my teeth and splashing my face with water. I have too much to do today.
It stays with me. This thought, this feeling. It feels like a muscle memory, like when you forget to put your watch on in the morning and spend all day looking at the empty spot where your watch should be. I can't put my finger on it, but I feel vaguely unsettled all day, productive but removed, my mind pinging and taking inventory; did I forget to do something? Did I take out food for dinner? Run all my errands? Did I drop the ball on a project at work? Did I lose something?
The day is brutal. I stagger home long after the sun has gone down, exhausted and heavy. After I lock the door behind me, I stand in the middle of my living room looking around and hoping something will catch my eye that will tell me why I feel so unsettled. I come up with nothing. I decide the only thing that can fix this is wine.
I open the fridge, the frigid air settling over my face, and inside is the answer so clear I can't believe I didn't see it before.
His beer is in my fridge. His cereal in my cabinet. His towel on the rod in my bathroom. There’s red, heart shaped balloons kissing the ceiling in my living room. His scent still on my sheets. Instinctively I touch my lips- the last place he touched me- and his taste is long gone. I look down at my hands, having spent days lazily intertwined with his, now empty.
I close the fridge. I leave a trail of clothes from the kitchen to the bedroom, lifting the covers and tucking myself underneath them in one smooth motion. I settle in, the scent of us commingled settling around me like a hug. I inhale deeply, knowing I should get up and change them but not having it in me to do it just yet.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll clean this up.
Tonight I settle into a restless sleep, my body refusing to even roll over to the other side of the bed closest to the window.
Something is missing, I think before exhaustion finally overtakes me.
As always, it's him.
Wednesday, January 15, 2014
The silver lining was the days my grandma's sky blue Bonneville would inch down the carpool driveway, knowing that her being there meant I'd get to hang out with her until it was time for my daddy to pick me up for his visitation weekend.
We'd sing (or more accurately she'd sing and I'd giggle), her voice full and lovely with just a twinge of smokiness from the cigarettes she smoked. There was a silly song about a bee. And one about a bunny. She'd buy me a coke and weather my insistent questions with patience and humor.
I don't remember when or why she stopped, but I do remember missing her, even as it felt like a betrayal to my mama, to my maternal grandmother, to admit it.
I was in college before I really came to understand what a force my grandma was. A whip smart, steel eyed touchstone that raised five kids after her husband died too young while still managing to build a successful, meaningful career. She is lovely and crass, a combination we both share, and profoundly generous; a trait she has leaned into and I have built fortresses around after the jagged edges of life necessitated it.
My grandma has been retired for all the years I've been alive and the running joke became a kind of game of “Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?” On the rare occasion I came home from school, I was never sure I'd see her, as she spent the vast majority of her time on a plane to somewhere, more than likely to a casino not in the city where we lived. She spent almost thirty years the way you hope you get to spend retirement; traveling and indulging her whims, from gambling her money to painting her nails bright pink. When people shared tales of their aging grandparents- the ebbing sharpness, their losing their ability to see and hear and drive and live alone, eventually moved into a basement bedroom or shuffled off to some nondescript building named after a tree- it was foreign to me. At 86, my grandma was still driving, still traveling all over the country, still going to watch her beloved baseball team, still smoking and drinking Coors Lite, and stubbornly wiggling her jeweled, poppy pink fingers in the face of anyone who asked her when she would slow down.
And then suddenly she wasn't.
I spent my birthday with her this year, by her bedside in a hospital, after she had a stroke. I sat there for hours, watching her swing from consciousness to slumber, repeating the things she couldn't remember she said to me the last time she was awake, but smiling every time she recognized my face.
We talked about nothing. I pretended not to be alarmed at how much weight she'd lost when the nurse came in to change her. I waited patiently while my brilliant grandma struggled to search her muddy brain for basic words. I smiled thinly through the ice sliver of anxiety in my stomach at this familiar scene. I'd been here before and I said to myself what I wasn't brave enough to say to anyone else; I could be about to lose her.
May brought a new job and a move back home, and a vow that I would not make the same mistake with her as I did my maternal grandmother before her.
I go see her as often as I can. I spend hours talking to her and laughing at her, fussing at her stubborn refusal to do the exercises her physical therapist gave her to do. We watch TV. And I wait patiently as her mind spins and whirs, as she plods through sentences she once would have skated over with aplomb. I listen intently to every random recollection, my heart heavy with the responsibility of possibly being the keeper of her memories if her long term memory goes hazy and less sharp around the edges the way her short term memory has. I spent a couple hundred dollars to get her great seats to go to her first baseball game in years. I travelled with her for Thanksgiving to spend with our family, watching her intently even as I mingled, coming when she called and hustling when she needed something.
But it kills me. It kills me. To watch my razor sharp, educator of a grandma struggle for words. To listen patiently as she repeats herself, or call her back repeatedly because she doesn't remember she called me an hour ago. It kills me to watch her wry humor turned inwards on herself. It's awful the way her freedom has been taken from her, suddenly and without warning. Mere months ago, while she might not have been running marathons she was certainly still getting around. It kills me to watch her struggle to take even a couple steps, aided by a walker she can't stand. I hate to hear her apologize or thank me profusely when I have to help her to the bathroom or get dressed, as though she is a burden. It kills me to watch her slip away.
But still I come. I come sit with her and I call and make sure she knows that I love her and that she is more joy than she will ever be a burden, and I tell her she will be ok, and I will be ok and we will all be ok. I tell her how beautiful she is because she is still so lovely, and that I love her, wholly, deeply, as all-consumingly as I did as an awkward little brown girl for whom she was a daily refuge.
And I pray. I pray that she stays healthy and as well as she can be. I selfishly pray that I have many more years with her so she can see me indulge the wanderlust I inherited from her and fall in love the way she was with my grandfather and so she can sing the bunny song to my kids.
She gave me my first prayer rosary way back when, and taught me what saints to pray to and if I was as smart then as life has made me now, I would have guarded it, and her, far more fiercely.
Monday, November 18, 2013
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
“You came and didn’t tell me?”
“I didn’t think I needed to check in.”
“Yeah, you were never good at that.”
“Neither were you. Clearly. But aight.”
I fish a thong out of my suitcase to wear under my dress with one hand, and type lazily with my other.
“We’re not doing this.”
“Don’t you think we need to talk about this?”
“We coulda talked about this months ago. You showed your ass. So, your opportunity to talk to me is over.”
“We need to resolve this.”
“It’s been resolved.”
“Why are you being so cold?”
“This is what you wanted.”
“Hey, did I tell you I was going outta town next week?” I tell him no, figuring it’s one of many business trips to somewhere that he takes often.
“Where are you off to?”
“Mexico.” This gives me pause a bit. Mexico doesn’t sound like a business trip.
“Mexico?” I parrot back.
“Yeah. Mexico. With Carey.”
“You’re going to Mexico. With… your ex-girlfriend?”
“Yeah. I didn’t think it would be a problem.”
“Thinking is clearly not your strong suit, then.”
“We’re not doing this.”
“I just wanna talk this out.”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Don’t be like this.”
“This is what you wanted.”
“You know, I know where you’re going tonight. I could just show up and make you talk to me.”
“I think I have more than proven I am willing to and capable of showing my whole and entire ass in public, so try me if you want to.”
“It shouldn’t be like this.”
“No, it shouldn’t.”
“What’s the problem, La?”
“What’s the problem?! I can’t tell if you really don’t think it’s a problem, or if you’re hoping that if you act as though it’s not a problem, I will be convinced.”
“It really isn’t that big a deal.”
“You’re going on vacation with the ex you thought you’d marry and it’s not a big deal? That shit doesn’t deserve discussion of some sort?”
“I mean, you know what this is, La. This trip doesn’t mean anything.”
“Nigga, you must think I’m stupid.”
“I never said that. But we never said we were cutting off other people.”
“La, you know what this is.”
“Obviously you and I have very different ideas about what “this” is.”
“I expect that the person that I’m dating not be going on vacation with their ex.”
“But we never said we were exclusive though.”
“You’re absolutely right. And that’s my fault for not being clear about my expectations. But this is not okay with me.”
“I don’t want to be bound by all the titles and the bullshit.”
“So all the benefits and none of the responsibility. That’s a change from that shit you were dream selling.”
“Yo, why are you being such a bitch about this?”
“Why are you being like this?!”
“This is what you asked for.”
“You think so? Cuz this is me on about 6. You ever call me a bitch again and I will spend the rest of the time between then and when they carry your ass to the hospital on 15.”
“That’s because you refuse to be wrong. And you know you’re wrong as fuck.”
“I didn’t expect you to be such a girl about this.”
“You know what, fuck you and this argument.” I turn to walk back into the house and gather my things to head home. It’s his turn to lose it.
“You have five minutes.”
“You think we can have this whole conversation in five minutes?”
“This isn’t a conversation. I have nothing left to say. You wanted to talk. You have five minutes to do that.”
He looks at me long and hard and sighs. He starts, his confidence obviously thrown. He says all the things someone says when they knows they have broken something they can’t piece back together but their pride won’t let them not try.
“If you don’t let me go, it will be the very last thing you do with that hand.” He turns me loose and we stand there almost snarling at each other, toe-to-toe, neither of us willing to back down.
“I shoulda known better.”
“I shoulda known better than to try to be with someone as fucking broken as you.” I stand there in heartbroken shock as the friend I’ve known for years, who’s been around through trials and triumphs and deaths and promotions and heartbreaks, runs down all my flaws, all my heartbreaks, all the things we ever discussed in hushed confidence that I thought I was sharing with someone who unconditionally had my back.
He pauses his rant only long enough to take a deep breath, and a detached calm settles over me.
“Are you done?”
“No, you aren’t. I’m just glad you finally got to say what you felt about me.”
“That isn’t how I felt- how I feel- about you. I was just angry and drunk-“
“And that’s how I know you spoke your heart. But it’s cool. I am uninterested in being with someone who is with me as though it’s a favor to me.”
“La, we go so far back-“
“And that’s why this is such a shame.”
“Yes. I can be. But that wasn’t my question. My question was; ARE YOU DONE?!”
“Yeah, I’m done.”
“Good. Me too.”
“You know, I liked you more when you weren’t so emotional.”
“Oh, you mean you liked me better when I didn’t give a fuck? That? THAT I can do.”
“We don’t need to fix shit. Because we didn’t break it.”
“What are you saying, La?”
“I’m saying you ruined this. And don’t you ever fucking forget it. Your time’s up.”
Friday, October 18, 2013
I think that day I was complaining about all the junk. Or maybe the filthy, dark bathroom I had to share with my little brother. Either way, I was complaining, the latest bitch session of many bitch sessions about the things that were driving me to drink (more) about living with my daddy and stepmom and brother since relocating. And my dear friend QQ, bless her heart, was still patiently listening. When I paused for air she asked me, “So why don’t you just move?”
I didn’t have any answer for that.
* * * *
At the end of a long day, I finally park my truck outside the house after fighting 45 minutes of traffic to get here. I dodge the oversized potted plants and their spilled soil on the top step and walk inside. Honey greets me at the bottom of the steps, her tail wagging mightily and running around in excited circles.
“Hey Honey boo boo chile!” I greet her as she sits down and waits for her customary end-of-the-day belly rubs. When she is done, she sprints up the split stairs as I follow behind her, curling up at my daddy’s feet.
He returns my greeting, using my first and middle names as he always does, as though they are one name and not two.
“Okay dinner is almost done.”
I sit down on the couch across from him, slipping off my shoes and taking my hair down.
“You did that when you were a kid too.”
“Rub your face when you’re sleepy.”
I pull my hands down from my face, not even aware that I had been doing it.
We don’t talk about anything. How my day went. How spoiled the dog is. What’s for dinner. What’s on TV. Football. I follow behind him as he shuffles into the kitchen, his knee still sore from the surgery he had a few months back. We laugh and crack jokes as he puts the finishing touches on dinner while I try to steal food from his pots and pans when he isn’t looking. We settle in front of the TV as we always do since my stepmom is at work and my little brother isn’t fond of coming out of his room. He finds Family Feud, the one with Steve Harvey because he doesn’t like the other hosts, makes an immature joke about farts and we eat.
A couple hours later, after we have sat and watched TV and made inappropriate guesses about the responses 100 people gave to random questions, I take our dishes to the kitchen to wash and he sets up the ironing board. When I return, I pick up an edge of the pants he is pressing and throw them off the ironing board.
“Oh, I’ma beat your ass,” he says to me faking more malice than either of us believe and smiling so hard his eyes crinkle.
“Whatever, old man, ain’t nobody scared of you.”
We watch NCIS and talk about how he wanted to be an air force pilot. We talk about the dog putting on weight and the best way to sear a roast so it doesn’t get dry. We talk about more nothing before we both head upstairs to our bedrooms, him dragging a basket of laundry, me with the dog trailing closely behind me.
I shower and then curl up under my covers, slipping on my glasses and reading a little before my daddy comes in. He sits on the foot of my bed, rubbing the dog and telling me about a comedy special he wants me to watch before he leaves. Later, while I’m lying sprawled across my bed, smiling into the phone pressed against my cheek, he peeks his head in to give the dog a treat and tell me he is making my favorite meal tomorrow.
And really, this is it, isn’t it? This is the reason why, despite my bitching, and my discomfort, this is why I’ve not left. Because I am finally getting what I thought I never would; the chance to get to know my dad.
I worried for the longest that something would happen to one of us and we would still be strangers to one another. That time would get away with us and we would never be able to mend the things that had been broken between us. And I know, logically speaking, that my moving barely ten minutes away from him isn’t going to change anything.
But if I am being honest with myself, as I am trying to be these days, there is a kid here somewhere, who is just enjoying hanging out with her daddy. And a fear that change, any change really, might ruin what I never thought I’d have.
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
I am trying to remind myself to take deep breaths. That underneath my damp and trembling hands, deep down below my stampeding heart, I am okay. I fill my lungs with air, so much that my chest hurts under the pressure. I can feel my skin flush with heat, blooming from my chest and travelling in waves over my body, each more intense than the last. There is no stillness, no quiet to be found in my brain, no clean psychological space I can retreat to for peace. I need to get up from my desk, to take a walk and seek refuge in a quiet corner or out in the sunshine, but I realize that the edges of my vision are starting to go dark, like shades slowly being drawn. Tears well in my eyes as I am gripped by the opening pangs of an anxiety attack I have thus far been successful in staving off. I am left to hope that no one sees me before I can get myself together.
Later, after I’ve calmed my heartbeat and wiped my tear streaked face, feeling sheepish at my falling apart and grateful I have not been discovered, I try to trace back a trigger that I can avoid in the future. If I am being honest with myself, there wasn’t one. There was no one moment that sent my body spiraling into panic. It isn’t my job; here I am successful, I am fast on my feet. Here I am capable and adept at producing under impossible conditions. I am clutch in crises. I am awesome under pressure. I thrive in intense, make or break, vice tight situations. And much of my work involves operating under such conditions. Here, my hyper ambition is allowed to thrive.
But my life. My life is quiet. And it’s making me anxious.
The difficulty is that there is no real problem here. Things in La Land have been lovely. I’ve moved. Landed an amazing job at a dream organization. I adore my coworkers. I’m making good money. I’ve accomplished some major financial goals. I’m travelling and hanging out with friends I have gone years without laying eyes on. I’m spending time with family and getting drunk on patios and at outside concerts. I am dating and achieving and growing far beyond where I’ve been.
And naturally, I am a fucking mess.
The anxiety that always lives in a dark corner of my heart, swoops in suddenly and uninvited, ricocheting around my chest cavity, travelling out to my extremities. There is a reassuring voice in my head telling me nothing is wrong here but it is often too quiet to drown out the other noise. And if I am really honest, the problem is that nothing is wrong here.
There isn’t. This is not lip service. THERE IS NOTHING WRONG. But this happiness, this contentedness, is foreign to me. I have spent a lot of time surviving. Making it. Scraping by. And now that I’m not? I am woefully unprepared for how to navigate it all. It never occurred to me that I was the type of person who could not be still in times of peace.
I recognize that part of it is my conditioning. The deeply engrained notion that this happiness and freedom is not how life “works.” Years of Catholic guilt wrapped in large swaths of oft-repeated refrains; the personal pursuit of happiness is selfish. Self-indulgent. The desire to be free, to live according to your own whims and vices will bring you low. There will be consequences.
I find myself waiting for the blowback. For the moment when the waters of my life will swing suddenly from soothing rock to violent storm. I am incredibly anxious, debilitated by waiting for everything to go wrong. I am steeling myself for it. Though there is no indication at all that it is coming. But my mind is betraying me, unsure of how to settle in silence, not used to not having constantly plot and plan and execute. Where there is no crisis, I am subconsciously creating them, searching for any minute signs that things are maybe going south. I am assaulted by my thoughts, jumping rapidly back and forth, trying to stay a couple steps ahead of what is not happening. How can this go wrong? Can I fix it? Will I be ok? What is the thing that will fall apart?
Not realizing the thing falling apart is me.