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.