I hope you’re well. I hope you see the joy in the world. I hope you see the good. I hope you think about me fondly. Because I do.
I wonder at the girl I used to be. How brave she was and yet so naive.
The intricate way in which we change like smooth seamless waves. You don’t notice it until it’s already done.
How do I carry on with all these feelings inside me?
You told me to write it all down. You told me it would make me feel better to release the grip I had on the past, to let it flow out of me in a stream of words, because words can heal. But like I said before, words have only hurt me so far. That’s why I have boarded up the windows that provided a glimpse into the wretched house I ruminate in. Too many have walked past in ignorant disinterest. Some have glanced in its direction with passive curiosity or a willful arrogance. A few have wandered to the front stoop to sit for a while in contemplation only to leave exasperated. One knocked, and I let him in. What a disaster we made of it. He left and the door slammed. I don’t know by whose hand. Maybe both. And I vowed I’d never share so much of my shelter again. So I stopped writing. I holed up. Anxious and adulterated. Stubborn in my solitude. Detached from the very idea that one could give anything without losing everything.
While we may disagree on this front I am obliged to give it a chance. You have not led me astray yet so it may turn out just the way you proposed, and if it doesn’t I’ll feel vindicated in proving you wrong for the first time in the course of our time together.
It used to pour out of me like a faucet, straight from the tap, unfiltered and pure. Constant and overflowing. It used to be easy. And now it’s not. I’m all clogged up.
But I will snake the drain. And maybe my congested memories will start to trickle out in words and phrases. I will gather them, piece them together, and make something of my pain, my worry, my hopes, my regrets…
My hands grasp at the memories, scared of breaking again.
She said just sit down and write.
About what? I asked.
But where do I start?
With the truth.
I’ve been thinking about relationships lately. How they come and go. Or come and stay. I wonder if the story I’m telling myself is true, or if it’s just another easy way out of something I didn’t realize I never wanted. I second guess every compliment, every kind gesture, because I’ve seen the exploitation of trust gather forces and then shake the earth, but only so much for a tremor that the richter scale wouldn’t notice.
It is an unsettling.
What is true? What do I wish were true?
I’m so tired in the wondering. And in the knowing.
Because in knowing, only I can create change.
I told my therapist that I don’t remember the last time I was genuinely excited about anything. I haven’t felt pure joy in recent memory. Everything is in shades of grey, shimmering cooly. There is no fire. I do not desire anything, maybe because I desire everything.
I wonder if this is it. Is this the life I want. Or is there something else, some wild beauty that is missing. Maybe I’m just tired and cranky and losing hope in the why.
So I’m making a list of possible things. Wild incredible things. And maybe a desire will ignite inside me again.
I miss the intimacy of letters,
the ache in touching paper
caressed with ink
full of secret longings
and deep shades of hope.
I miss late night phone calls
and never ending Skype sessions
back when we had enough time
to do anything in the world
and all we did was love each other.
There is a sacred place where steady trees cover graceful hills and unforgiving mountains. It is easy to be breathless and in awe.
It is hard to compromise where we do not belong.
This is a different kind of loneliness, even though I’ve felt it all my life. Just adjacent to connection. Watching others discover love, wishing you knew if it were true.
I feel all alone in friendly crowded rooms. No one seeks me out for solace, and no one stays to keep me warm. Some barely catch my eye and then pretend they never saw.
I want a best friend, a partner in crime. Who knows what I’m thinking before I say it. Who sees the small hesitation before I say I’m fine. Who grabs my hand and runs. Who nestles up to me when it all becomes too much. Who is thick as thieves and we do not care what others think.
But imposter syndrome paints a vivid picture of all the people I thought I was. And every single version doesn’t come close enough to what I think other people love.
It’s hard enough to live inside this body. Without the worry that for others it’s not good enough to be seen and held and free.
It’s odd to feel like you so entirely belong and at the same time, like you are so entirely separate.
I can’t shake the feeling that this is not my home. Even though it looks like and sounds like it.