Hi bestie.
It’s been awhile.
There’s been a lot of life and on goings since the last time we chatted. Not sure who reads my blogs anymore. But then I remember, from the very beginning, that I write these for me. I write them so I don’t carry around these excessive feelings in my chest, their weight a constant heaviness to endure. I write them to give myself relief. If not, I end up sad. Lonely. And bitter. Or at the very least, I feel like these feelings are a hidden secret that I should be ashamed of. Shame is so so powerful. It cages me. Shame and fear are in cahoots, holding hands and giving each other knowing looks. And they are so so good at what they do. I feel like I keep forgetting to come up for air and when I finally do, I’ve lost a lot of what I thought was already mine. It leaves space for fear to creep in, like a mist. All of a sudden, my life feels like a spooky graveyard, a haze of fear making me unable to see where my next step will land. Knees knocking into the gravestone of things I’ve already put to rest, but the spirit of these things come back to try again, ghost hands reaching out to snatch me back. How many damn times do I have to kill them and put them to rest? It’s tiring. Just die already bruh. Why am I’m still aching for things that I’ve already overcome? Why do I mourn for things that have faded to gray? Will the ache cease? Am I alone with these thoughts? I feel like that’s what fear and shame do. They make me feel like I am the only person on the planet who has failed and now has to deal with the indignity of trying again.
One of the things that is hard to talk about is when you’re single and raising two kids old enough to recognize when their mom is off. When their mom is not at her best. They are able to recognize it and see the stress and overly tired eyes. Or even worse, when you’ve closed your door to cry in your pillows and have re-emerge with red and puffy eyes. They look, and they know. How do you discuses heartbreak about things that they shouldn’t be concerned about? The weight of their mothers worries should never rest of the shoulders of my babies. They should not know how to navigate their space with egg shells strewn about. Honestly, I think I do an okay job but I can’t hide everything. I want them to be okay with their emotions and understand that life is not always peachy keen. I want them to be able to see stress, see anxiety, and see that life still happens, even when you’re dealing with it. But how much is too much? I guess they will let me know when they are older. Hopefully, it’s at our family dinner and not in a therapist office.
I’ve been trying to put into words the feeling that I carry in my chest currently. It feels wistful. I feel like I’ve finally come up against a wall that I don’t have any inkling on how to overcome or outgrow. Is it heartache? Is it stress? Regret? Anxiety? Normal life???
To tell you the truth, I’m tried of growing. I feel like I’ve been growing for what seems like ever. Growth is great and all but dang. Was I that far behind in my former life that all this growth is necessary? Can’t I be shallow and cranky and selfish for once!?
I’m tired of this grandpa!
To be honest, I thought I had grown all I could until recently. But it’s been revealed to me that I still have fear and anxiety and pride that I haven’t had to do battle with until now. These monsters came at me out of the dark, battle ax ready, swung, and now thoroughly imbedded into my chest. I’m not sure why I can’t fix everything all at once. I just want to be healed damn it. I’m tired of waking these sleeping giants that catch me unaware. They make me look, feel and act foolish. I come across as bratty. I have fear that I am not good enough. I have anxiety that I am not pretty enough or smart enough or competent at all. I have pride that makes me blind to everything else except my own needs and wants and desires. Staring into the Sun of Julie prevents me from seeing much else. It ruins my relationships. They leave me wounded. Panting. And apologizing. I am so damn tired of apologizing. I am so damn tired of healing. I am so damn tired of playing catch up. I just wanna be good. I wanna be easy. I wanna be smooth like silk and soft like a baby bunny. I want to not have the urge to smack talk, or retort or share my “wisdom”. Who am I to push what I feel is right or wise onto others? I haven’t lived their life. I haven’t slept in their beds or kissed who they’ve kissed or shared their dreams. Who am I to think that I have any say or thought or even idea of who these people are or why they should ever listen to me? I’m a divorced, single parent, barely cracking open my eyes wide enough to see my own flaws. Cállate man.
I thought I had finally found my flow before. I thought I had found my groove. My witty, sharp, foolishly bright ideas. Girl, you dumb.
Something I’ve spoken about in previous blog posts is that I want to be softer. I am declaring it now. I no longer want to be hard hearted and bad to the bone. I want to be squishy. And soft. Romantic even. I am over this masculine era. It was necessary before. It was needed. I needed to save myself. Claw, fly, fight, scratch and gouge my way out from the pit of despair. To plow my field and plant my garden. Blood sweat and tears. I was a heaving, amped up bully, looking for people to cross swords with. Now? I’m done. I no longer want that. I don’t want to have to prove myself. I don’t want to puff out my chest and sharpen my claws. I want to put away my sharp tongue and hard hearted ways. I want to be soft. Sweet. Kind. Generous. Giving. Loving. Forgiving. And it’s not that I haven’t been those things. But you had to try hard to get past my armor. And I didn’t make it easy. I still don’t. Why am I making what I want so hard to actually achieve? I crave connection. I crave people. Friends. Family. And anyone else brave enough to come my way. I don’t want to make it so hard for them to reach me. I used to want people to have to cross an ocean to prove to me that they were worthy. And while this does have its advantages, it does make for lonely company. But honestly, I have to ask myself this: am I worthy of them? I have to make a choice. Be lonely on my island with my pride and hard heart? Or leave my island and bake cookies in your kitchen instead? Honestly, the thought of leaving my island absolutely terrifies me. It’s safe here. But it not longer serves me. So here, in this blog post, I’m casting off the dock of my island for the last time. I don’t have any intention of returning. When I get to land, come see me. And bring your marshmallows, cause I’m burning the boat.
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