Swear Words And Other Things In Common

Something happens and before you know it

You find that gravity isn't the only thing holding you to the Earth.

It's swear words, Star Wars and love notes.

If I recall it took three years for you to say the "F-word" in front of me 

and it made me question everything I know.

I put on jeans this morning because I thought it would make me more motivated for the day

and even after going out with a man who got completely drunk 

and sang incoherent karaoke the entire date,

I can still say that it was the worst decision I've made.

Not that it's a big deal or anything

But it's just that you had me at sweet potato fries and burgers in that Irish pub on the corner.

I warned you that my brain is driven by the monkeys in Jumanji and yet here we are;

after we've taken turns getting our hearts broken like a piggy bank, scary accurate tarot readings and ten years later.

This thing we have is like that Sunday crossword puzzle.

It takes all day, or in our case decade, to figure out

But when you finally do it's a feeling of accomplishment that can't be compared.

And now that I expressed that thought, 

all I want to do is hold hands and do the crossword together.

My God, I hated seeing any picture of you with another woman.

I couldn't breathe knowing that she was kissing you 

Because I could tell that she didn't care if it was perfect.

It still didn't occur to me that I wanted to be the only one doing it.

I am not a religious woman but I remember the first time you kissed me 

And the air around us formed a cloud stairway

Because immediately I needed to find your God 

And repent for trying to love anyone before you.

It took forever to admit but I want to know you in a way that nobody else does.

I want to know your morning routine and bedtime rituals.

I want to know what side of the bed you sleep on,

and the rhythm of your breath as you dream of me.

I want to know how many times we can change our hair until we don't have any.

I want to be there to wish you sweet dreams 

and be beside you in case the bad ones try to visit

while always being there to kiss you good morning.

As long as you swear to never sing "The Final Countdown" as long as we both shall live.

What Healing Really Looks Like

I'm starting to feel like God is testing me and I didn't study.

Let me just start by saying that Sam and I are over.  I have written a lot in my phone about it, mostly because when it first happened the only way that I could function was to walk 5 miles a day, dictating into my phone.  I will work on publishing it eventually, but I've felt like I have healed enough so that my energy doesn't belong there anymore so it'll probably take some liquid honesty to get it all out.

And heal, oh boy did I ever.  Like throwing a box of band aids into the Grand Canyon.

Healing is not just bath bombs and warm tea.  It was 3 weekends away in a row at my best friend's home that I was fortunate enough to have access to; sort of a free Air B&B type situation.  I was so stoked to be alone, just a girl and her dog on a journey of awesome.  I was going to get so much writing done, I was going to heal and it was going to be awesome.  It was so not awesome.  I hated being alone.  It may or may not have involved getting white girl wine drunk in a bubble bath.  I anger hiked up a trail to Mount Battie, not knowing that you could drive up to the top....  A Tinder hook up, making connections through the dating app world that became overwhelming to the point that I deleted the profiles two weeks after signing up.  I did everything I could to not be home.  I hated pausing, pausing was me catatonic where I was sitting with a never-ending highlight reel of suckage.  But the powering through meant that I was too busy to feel and like a pack of wolves lurking in the shadows it was catching up to me.  I'm an avid avoider.  I just couldn't do it anymore.  There were a bunch of tiny moments, miniscule attempts at patching up holes I've been living with for far longer than I care to admit.

I reopened some wounds.  I mean, not literally; though I guess it wouldn't be too much of a stretch - I do have a tendency to pick at scabs, scratching them off until they bleed.  I've never been good at knowing where to stop.  Over the last few months, I dug up some repressed memories.  I took a shovel to all my dense layers of defense mechanisms and I didn't stop until I hit heart.  I stopped making jokes.  I looked at the hurt and I let myself sit in it this time.

It was so fucking uncomfortable.  I hated every second of it.  Especially because of the fact that I couldn't pound the keys on the computer - mine had crapped the bed and I couldn't bring myself  to use another one - for some reason I couldn't bring myself to use another device.    But I knew before, as we all do with our helping others and never ourselves, that healing, real healing, is ugly.  I would have to actually process some shit, and feel it.

None of it is something you're rushing to post on Instagram.  I'm filled with dirtiness and secrets.  Healing looks like my puffy face after nights I spent crying because I can't keep running from the skeletons in my closet.  It looks like trying to piece things together when I don't know where to start.  I don't think we ever get over trauma.  Not in the way that I was taught to "get over it" anyway.  We definitely adjust.  We always fiddle with the rear view mirror while we're trying to speed away from it.  Man, if I can applaud humankind for anything, it's our resiliency.

I look at all the external scars on my body and think about how they healed in such an understandable process.  Like, you can see it healing.  You see the bleeding stop, the scab forms and before you know it, you're all better.  Unfortunately emotional healing doesn't work that way.  The scars don't get lighter with each passing month.  You work your ass off, you come so far, and before you know it, you don't just fall off the wagon, without even giving it a second thought it's fucking napalmed.  It doesn't nullify the progress you've made, it's just a reminder that healing doesn't work in a linear way.

Most days, the hurt is so far away from me.  It's like it didn't happen at all.  It's like I'm remembering the story of someone else's life that I heard about in passing.  Some days, like the ones I have directly after having a time that can only be categorized as radical happiness wrapped up in pure joy, the hurt screams as it tears my gut apart.  And on those days, I try to tell myself that this is healing too.  That everything I am experiencing is as temporary as it is valid.  We are all healing in ways that don't look or feel like it at the time.

I for one, appreciate the reminders that it isn't going to be pretty.  It's not easy or straightforward and we can fall back into that traumatic pain more often than we are ready for.  So if all I can muster the energy for is eating cheesy popcorn in bed with my dog, I have to remember to acknowledge my efforts and be as kind to myself as possible - without judgement - and work on maintaining a positive perspective.    

Like they emphasize in the wonderful movie What About Bob?, staring the great Bill Murray:

BABY STEPS.

~Revised 11/9/20, 11/11/20