Househunting

You asked me once why I was going house-hunting with you if I was so deeply unhappy with you.  I said, because it was my best guess at the time, it was because I was in denial.  Ending things with you was the hardest thing I'd ever done.  Even thinking about it brought on panic attacks for years.  It hurt too much to really look at honestly,  until you forced my hand.

And while I would still say that all of that is true, I see another layer to it now.  I think it wasn't just denial of how things were, it was that intoxicating possibility of how things might be.

When we drove around those neighborhoods and remarked on the yards, the nearby parks, the trees or bushes or windows looking out on all of these things I imagined.  I imagined me sitting in one of those gardens, surrounded by green and light, meditating.  Quiet.  Peaceful.  Serene.  I imagined myself as unbothered by all of the things that bothered me.  I imagined myself transcending my obsessive worrying and all those resentments that would eventually break us.  I imagined myself happy within myself.

And I imagined, like we all like to imagine, that the dream house would somehow fix you in so many of the ways you wouldn't fix yourself.  You'd sleep, finally.  Because of the privacy, or the comfort, or something.  You'd work less because you so loved the home, our home, and you'd want to spend more time in it.  You'd be happy because all of your hard work over the years, all of your misery over the years, all of your monotonous toiling had led you to this... victory, I guess?  That was sort-of how you talked about it, at least.  Like it would define some level of success that you hadn't yet achieved.

It's funny, but in the end I think I did see all of those fantasies for what they really were.  I realized- and I even said it to you- that if you locked yourself into this big mortgage you could only afford by being a workaholic that you would just work that much harder, sink that much deeper, disappear that much more.  And all of those reasons why we'd pick the house in the first place- the large yard and huge windows and all that precious privacy- would become liabilities.  Things that had to be paid to be maintained, fixed, kept up.  And I would be there, in that big, beautiful house, alone.  But even more so, because of all that privacy.

So I abandoned that dream.  And I faced reality.  And I found out, as everything fell apart, that the dream house was one of many fantasies I'd been nursing for years.  Much like the fantasy that when you said nothing it was because you understood me and nothing needed to be said.  Like the fantasy that our life together was benefiting both of us, making us both better.  Like the fantasy, the story, the one that took the longest to abandon, that we were forever.  We weren't.

We were a dream house that never really existed in the first place.

And now, standing at the welcome mat for something else, I find myself being pulled into another fantasy.  So many more things to imagine, so many more possibilities.  And they are enticing, warming, ever so intoxicating.  But they are no more real than that dream house that never existed. 

So the challenge, the mental marathon of disciplined thought, is staying here- right where I am, right now, without letting myself be pulled into that ever-so-lovely possible future.  

It's so much more difficult than anything I've ever done.  And yet, it's real.  And it's enough.

Goodbyes and Hellos

I've been wondering lately, in the midst of life steamrolling straight ahead, if we ever really close the door on our past.  All of our rituals and behaviors we reserve for such things- letting go, moving on, accepting.  As much as the spoken words and steps followed give us something real to clasp onto.. I don't know if ever really let go.

Because our memories never leave us.  And that's the very thing that gives us solace when things go the way they do and those endings we didn't expect force us onto a different course.  But when trying to let go, when trying to move on- those same memories keep us where we are.  Not quite ready to let go, but unable to go back.

So I'm not fooling myself with this.  I know there will be more tears.  I know those memories will still hit me at the oddest moments, stealing my breath away once again and flattening me to the ground like they do.  I know that the pain and the joy will always be a part of me, wherever I go, whatever do, however the next chapter of my story unfolds. 

So I guess that's the acceptance piece.  Knowing that it continues, in unexpected ways and quiet moments of stillness.  Knowing that who I am will always include who I was.  And bringing all of that past with me into the future.

The Check

It's funny, the things we wish for.  I've been waiting for this for a while.  Thinking that it would bring about some level of closure.  Like a permission slip to move on, an ending that would weigh down my baggage enough for me to break free and float up to the surface.  To break through and breathe again.

And yet, just the sight of your handwriting is enough to bring me to my knees.  Just the reminder that there is a living, breathing, writing human being out there who I used to love with every cell of my being.

I tear open the triangular seal and see typed writing through the backside of a folded letter.  You wrote.  You said something real.  Maybe it's an invitation.  An honest disclosure of feeling.  One soul reaching out to another.  Or maybe it's a goodbye, a release.  That thing I've been waiting for.  All those articles I've been reading about how to let go of the past finally leading to something real.

But no, how silly of me.  It's the same cold, emotionless communication you've been giving me all along.  A contract.  An explanation of details.  A photocopied severing of the heart.

And a check.  Logical, feeling-less numbers.  The details, the formalities.  The end.  Real.  Not a nightmare, not my imaginings.  But real, cruel life.

And with that, it's over.  All the formalities, all the details, all the back and forth e-mails come down to this.  Ten years of a love story I thought would last forever, ended in a check, enclosed in envelope, and sealed with the tongue you used to kiss me with so fiercely it made my heart beat out of my chest.  

The tears come.  I have nothing to stop them with.  My body slumps against the wooden doors of my cabinets as I sink down to the hardwood floor of the kitchen.  My body is wracked with the sobs and I don't even try to fight them.  I am carried, like sea foam on a wave.  I am the pain body.  I am heartbreak incarnate.  And no, I don't care how melodramatic I'm being at the moment.  This is real.  This is the end I've been fearing for so long.

I wonder in this moment, if the pain I experienced while we were together is actually worse than this.  If I chose this over that because it really was worse.  And the answer, of course, is no.  This pain is much worse than anything I could have imagined in fantasy, nightmare or daydream.  Because it's not just in my head.  Because it's actually happening.  Breathe- this is real.  You can't wake up from it.

And they all say the same thing: it's good.  The fact that I'm capable of experiencing this, of being mindful to this, of really living in this.  The fact that I'm not closed off to this pain.  The fact that I can inhabit it, the same way as I inhabited love.  This is the gift.  This is life.

So I cry.  And I scream.  And I let my face contort in ways that hurt my face.  And I allow myself the moments of pure, unadulterated pain.  I surrender.  I surrender.

And tomorrow, life will go on.  And the reassurances that I've done the right thing, the only thing, will repeat themselves in my mind.  And I will be fearless and fierce and brave.  I will live.

But for now, in the quiet of my kitchen and the still of this late March evening, I will hold the check and allow myself the space to die... in the hopes that by letting you go, I will finally live.

The Hurricane

Even now, looking around this space- MY space- I still struggle to feel real.  So much has changed in such an incredibly short period of time.  I have a new definition of home.  A new definition of family.  A new definition of myself.  A new definition of life.

Everything has completely changed.  And even the things that haven't changed seem drastically different in the light of all the other changes.  Even work, even yoga, even karate and friendships that have always been there.  Everything- everything is different.

Slightly over a month ago, life looked like it had for years.  Years and years and years.  And now, slightly over a month later, I'm already slipping into a new pattern.  New daily routines.  New normalcy.  In only over a month.  I can't believe it.

I would be impressed or excited or hopeful but I can't be too much.  Because every time I think I'm accepting, the past comes back.  Every time I think I'm firmly rooted in the present a memory pulls me back into the past.  Ten years of memories, ten years of stories, ten years of you being a constant in my life.  And now, nothing.

That's what I struggle with the most- the timeline.  The speed with which a life can so drastically and completely change.  It feels like being picked up by a hurricane.  You're swept up, blown away.  Nothing firm to hold on to, no idea as to when it will end or where you'll land.  Nothing to do but be thrown about and hope nothing irreparably breaks when you land.

But it's strange- it seems I landed a long time ago.  But my head's been spinning ever since.

Easter

It's funny, but one of the things that kept me where I was was my love of your family.  Ten years of memories and photos and weddings and births.  Countless birthdays and Christmases and dinners.  Countless ways in which we were entwined in the tapestry of each others lives.  And I thought that was love.  I thought it was the best kind of love.

Now, on the other side of everything, finding myself shunned and completely ostricised I see what that love is worth.  I see how easily the light switch is flicked off.  And it's shocking.  Really, beyond comprehension.  To go from family to nothing so quickly is nothing short of jarring.

But I saw something today, something that restored some faith.  Yours wasn't the only family.  They weren't the only people who could welcome someone in and treat them like family.  They weren't the only home I could be embraced by.  Love is everywhere.  In so many more places than I realized before with my narrow world view.

So no, I won't pretend that the severed ties that kept me so tightly bound to your family didn't leave a permanent mark.  But I won't delude myself with the notion that they were the only ties that matter.  I am bound to so many more people than I ever realized when I was with you.  And my love is limitless.

They Say

They say the key is to always stay busy- don't give yourself too much to think, to wonder, to plan or fear or go crazy.  The mind is an unruly thing, best not to let it run too wild.

They say the pain is there to be felt- to be observed, tracked, understood.  that's where growth comes from.  That's where the change happens.

They say that simple distractions have their place and in fact a good measure of self love.  It's kinder, gentler to be easy on yourself.  Change the world later, have a revolution later.

They say that the details can keep you moving when you'd otherwise get stuck.  Paperwork, e-mails, bills, appointments, to-do lists and chores.  These little signs of normalcy, these little reminders that life does go on, everyday.  It keeps you chugging along and it's good.

They say not to overload yourself too much.  You're not gonna be at the top of your game, and that's ok.  You're allowed to take a break, you're allowed to not be on top of everything.  Consider how much energy you have to give and reserve some for just surviving.

They say that time heals all wounds.  The craziness will pass.  The pain will dull.  Life will take whatever shape it's going to take and then all of this will make sense.  Someday, someday.

They say so many things, so many pieces of advice, so many words of wisdom, so much hard-won knowledge.  But I find that sometimes the best thing, the most comforting, the most warm, the most loving- is saying nothing at all, but just listening.

Days

Some days the world is bright and beautiful, more beautiful than I ever realized before.  I wake up to the sunlight illuminating my gauzy curtains- something that never happened before because you needed those heavy black out curtains.  Your insomnia, always a large stone in the wall between us.

I look at the little one all snuggled in bed with me and feel a twinge of guilt that he wasn't always there- your allergies.  But, I think, he's here now.  And this feels right.

I get up and stretch and putter around my new kitchen making breakfast, spooning dog food, smelling coffee.  No need to be too quiet- no one to wake up.  The space is starting to feel like mine and a routine is starting to build.  Life is easy, I am able.

I meditate and chant right out my open fire escape door.  I feel the wind on my skin, the sunlight on my face, smell the grass in the yard below.  That window I used to hide by so the neighbors won't see is gone and I'm not hiding anymore.  If I stopped hiding from you then what the hell is the point of ever hiding again?

I walk to work.  What a revelation.  No car, no traffic, no desperately clinging to the radio to try to distract myself from the maddening exercise of commuting- I walk.  That alone is a miracle and I love it.  I feel more in tune with everything.  I feel like I'm helping the planet- all that stuff about no carbon emissions and no relying on oil.  I feel free- not trapped in a car stuck in traffic.  And I smile at the knowledge that I'm going to hit my daily step count with ease.

Work is a calling instead of just a job.  I help people.  I listen.  I am genuine and caring and fully present.  I think about how everyone, always, is doing the best they can and I feel a genuine pride in being part of the human race.  And even the paperwork isn't so bad because I'm doing it.  I'm living, I'm surviving.  Hell, I'm thriving.  This is right.

I walk home, and in all honesty I feel a tiny bit like a bad-ass anime character with the wind whipping my blue hair across my face.  Hair that I cut and colored because you always wanted it long and natural.  I look out across the town and I love it.  This is home now.  This is my town.  I am strong, independent and fearless.  I am all the things I want to be and I fit here.

I cook- something I almost never did with you.  I can be adventurous and "just throw something together" without planning because I only have to feed myself and I'm so much more open to trying.  No more take out, no more mindlessly watching tv waiting for you to come home.  It's just me and Buddy now and we're free.

I go to sleep and feel like I can do this- this life without you.  It'll be better.  I will be better.  I will be all the things I've been working so hard to become because I'm no longer stifling so much of myself to keep playing the version of me that you wanted.  I know-  I feel it deep down- that this was the only way.  And I'm sorry I hurt you, I'm sorry I spoiled that perfect picture of everything being just fine.  But I know I had to- because this is who I am meant to be, and I couldn't be this when I was with you.

But then, some days the world has a shadow over it.  It isn't as simple as a change in the weather (though I seem to be a lot more effected by those now.)  It's a change in me.  I wake feeling heavy and weighed down.  As if my bones are made of lead- still brittle and breakable but so, so heavy.  Moving is difficult.  Breathing is difficult- that tightness in my chest is back.

I think of you and I miss you so deeply I can't keep the tears back.  They bite at the backs of my eyes and my throat closes up the way it always does.  My body is a prison I can't escape from and I feel betrayed by it.  Like everything is conspiring against me before I've even gotten up.

Breakfast, teeth-brushing, all the duties of the morning are mechanical; possible only because of their simplicity.  I feel sick.  There's an ache in my muscles, my heartbeat won't slow.  I even wonder if I'm coming down with something though I know I'm not.

I don't meditate- no time.  Getting out of bed took too long, everything is taking too long.  I walk to work quickly and see nothing- not the sky, not the trees, not the world.  I beat the pavement with anger because I'm late and life is fucking hard and I hate myself for it.  For being weak.  For being dependent on the life with you I no longer have.  I hate myself for throwing it away.

Work is impossible.  My brain constantly jumping around like an angry toddler.  I bounce from terrifyingly intense memories to the details of the day and back so quickly I can barely think straight.  I'm fighting it, I know I am.  But I have to- work has to be done.  Life has to be lived.  I have to keep going.  But nothing gets done and my anger increases.

My cynical side comes out full force with a million reasons why the world is shit, why the people in it are horrible, why you were right in so many ways.  And maybe you were right about me, too.  Maybe all this enlightenment is just a phase and I did throw away our life together for nothing.  Maybe I ruined everything.  It feel like that now.  At the end of the day I feel defeated and useless and weak.

On the walk home, I let it happen.  The tears, the pain that I've been fighting back against washes over me like the tide and I get carried away with it.  And it's an ego thing, I know.  My pain.  My heartbreak.  Me, me, me- why doesn't anyone understand my suffering?  And I know there are people in the world who have so many more real problems to worry about and I feel like a shit for wanting it all to end just because I'm sad.  But I am sad, and really fucking angry.  So fuck the rest of the world and let me wallow.

Back at my place I see that my budding home is nothing more than an apartment with a crazy neighbor downstairs and a broken knob on the heater.  I see everything wrong with it and I have no energy- none- to try to unpack anything else.  So the boxes stay, the blank walls stay and I feel some sense of satisfaction in being stuck in it because I deserve it. 

I drink.  Way too much.  And that critical voice of mine which has been on overload all day long gets the best of me.  I am all the horrible things it says I am.  My future is bleak and I was stupid to give up so much for this.  And so on, and so on.

I go to sleep, exhausted and wasted and dead.  But even then, even in the midst of so much self-indulgent self pity and even more self-hatred I remember something.  I remember what I've been told- that this is how it works.  There will be shadow days and pain and grief.  It's not a mistake, it's not an indication of wrongdoing- it's just how it works.  Tomorrow will be another day, another opportunity to do better, try again, be strong and fearless and able. 

So I forgive myself, just for today.  I set my alarm so I have enough time to meditate.  I think about what I need to do tomorrow to make it better.  I pray and I am grateful and wise and hopeful.  Because tomorrow, maybe, will be a bright day.

Bed

I've always slept alone, when I really think about it.  Sure, there'd be the mornings where I'd wake up and you'd be there- but it wasn't really what they mean when they say that.  Mornings are made for teeth-brushing and coffee making and dog walking.  Not lounging, and snuggling and sharing tales about the day.  And the kissing goodnight routine didn't make up for that.  Most nights, there wasn't even a ritual to goodnight- too tired, too dead to snuggle or kiss or talk.  So sleeping alone now isn't nearly as large of an adjustment as I thought it'd be.

In fact, it's better.  Because my furry little companion, my Buddy, sleeps with me now.  No longer confined to his little house where he'd sit alone trying to find comfort in the blankets left for him there he can now roam freely on that large, soft bed.  He comes and goes freely, without fear of being on furniture he's not allowed on, of tainting anything with his allergen-producing scent.  And when it comes time to turn out the lights he snuggles up next to me, his tiny little body warm and comforted by my shape and the covers he can freely settle into.  So really, when you think about it, I'm less alone now than I was before.

Reality

I haven't lived in an apartment since I was in my 20's and I admit, I kind-of thought I outgrew it.  My future held  large homes with yards that needed maintenance and neighbors taking their kids to soccer practice- not a downstairs neighbor screaming at an imaginary enemy or a broken radiator.  I thought I'd moved past the cheap Ikea dresser that takes hours to put together (not to mention a lot of cursing.)  I was beyond eating left over pizza for days because I didn't have any money left to do legitimate grocery shopping until my next paycheck.  I was grown-up, secure, home.

And yet, here I am- broke once again, asking my friends to help me schlep all of my belongings up old, creaky stairs and trying to remind myself that i'm strong enough to face it all again.  I've been saying throughout this entire process that this is the hardest thing I've ever done and facing reality dead-on hasn't done anything other than make that statement more true.

But what I try to remind myself of, what i'm trying to believe in every cell, every membrane, is that this is the testing ground of the soul.  This is the make or break time that defines my character.  This is the lesson that stands out above all others, and which serves me more than any of the others.  This is the thing that I can talk about on the other side of saying "if I could get through that, I can get through anything."

I am made of tougher stuff than what I am facing down right now.  This will not break me- this is how i will break through.

Dark Moon

They say that getting lost is the best way to find yourself.  that when you emerge from the dense woods you are a changed person- better, stronger, more skilled and able to face down bigger and more frightening obstacles without breaking a sweat.  But from the middle of the forest the woods look rather dark and frightening and you can't help but want to turn back every other second.

But when you're lost you can't turn back- the past no longer exists as a path you can travel, there are no breadcrumbs now.  The only way out is through.

That's where I am.  In the dark, remembering how easy life used to be, and praying I have the mettle to make it out of the forest alive.

Pomegranate

Knowing that you don't know.  It's a thing.  It's a thing that's been a theme for me a lot lately.  And like most of these concepts- the simple-sounding but ultimately soul-shaking ones- it's easy to understand on the surface level.

But what it means now, in the midst of my entire life changing with me as the catalyst, is something much deeper.  It means that I can't simply say that I got it wrong, that I held onto the wrong belief and then move onto another.  It means that I have to get comfortable with the fact that no belief- not one single one- is really right.

Because there's no such thing as right.  There's only right for right now.  And those beliefs I have to let go of now- they were just as right for me back then as my new beliefs are now.  But even these will have to change eventually.

It's the idea of the cycle- the constantly changing flow of things.  It's not right or wrong- it's holding on and letting go.  "The necessity of loss."  That was the phrase that stuck in my mind today.  The way that we have to learn to let go, because holding onto anything too tightly will get you in trouble.  That whole non attachment thing.   Like I said, really easy on the surface, really hard in practice.

So I can't just let go of this belief, I can't just say this doesn't serve me anymore and move on.  I have to get comfortable being in between, being in the unknowing, being in the lost.  Because whatever I grasp onto next will ultimately prove just as destined to change.

Let

I went to a witch today, in the sacred space the women share.  I felt its power as soon as I neared, I always do.  The same quiet consideration for my presence, the same welcoming embrace of acknowledgement.  The space envelops all who enter with pure heart, as it was made to.

I made a seat for myself and waited.  For what, I did not know.  But I did not need to.  I have been healed, hallowed, and held in this space.  I have been made to light up the dark parts of myself and to give them love.  I have been led through the most frightening moments of my story and I been taught to embrace them with the same unconditional regard a mother gives her child.  Whatever will happen here is sacred.  Whatever I encounter, I trust.

I closed my eyes and breathed the way I've been taught to, letting the air fill up my belly and spread my ribs wide.  Letting my body settle into the arms of the earth.  Letting my mind quiet in the stillness of such magick.

I heard her soft steps behind me and waited.  For instruction, for a story, for whatever would come.  I smelled the familiar scent of the herbs, heard the flick of the light for the candles, welcomed all the senses in and in.  And then I felt two smooth wands being placed into my open hands.  I knew what they were, my mind labeled them.  But to me they felt like heavy battle axes- tools to face down something big.

Being in the middle of my grief I thought I knew what they were for- we were going to fight, we were going to do battle.  We were going to go deep into the darkness and face whatever was lurking there.  My breath faltered, tears biting against the backs of my eyelids.  It's a habit, really.  It's a pattern that hasn't been broken up yet.

But what came next wasn't instruction or guidance.  It wasn't a story or a song.  It was the gentlest touch of the most healing hands.  It was the loving caress of a wise woman.  It was the beginning of a journey within- one I had not taken before.

I let myself go to it, trusting with every cell, every breath, every movement.  Trusting the tweaks and pushes, the gentle pulls, the loose shakes.  Trusting the guided rolls, the reminding nudges.  Trusting the process, and the woman leading me through it.

My mind wandered, it always does.  To my past still pulling at the backs of my eyes, threatening another flood of tears.  To my future so bright but frightening- having to take my own steps, to trust my own forged path, to allow the mistakes without fearing them.  And to right now, embraced in a loving touch so  powerful and wholehearted that I erupt with a feeling I did not expect: guilt.

I feel guilty in the presence of such love, I feel unworthy of so much compassion, I feel undeserving of such a complete offering.  My mind lists the reasons- I have wronged, I have hurt, I have injured.  I  have broken a family that was happy and whole before I left.  I have given up something real and tangible for a dream of something much greater- one I have only glimpsed.  I do not deserve this, I cannot accept it- reserve this kind of love for someone other than me.

The moments in which we practice self hatred are so varied and insidious.

But my heart can hear past the babble of my mind and the quiet roar fills me: just let.  So I do: I let.

And I am filled, and I am emptied.  I am rolled and I am stilled.  I am gently, so gently, loved.  And I let.

And in the quiet of the aftermath, when I am nothing more than my bones and veins and muscles, when my mind and madness have left me again- I hear her soft words.  These are wise words, I know.  I welcome them with all of me, I offer them space to take hold, to implant.  I open to them and hope that they will guide me through the storms ahead.

She gives me one warning: do not judge.  Do not tell stories.  Do not organize or categorize or try to make sense of it- which my conscious thoughts are already trying to do: forming hypotheses and theories of meaning and importance.  Do not do these things, she tells me.  I cannot know yet, I cannot hold yet, I cannot use these things as new patterns, new beliefs, new things to carry me forward.  I must walk on my own.

So I try to do as I am told, I try to place one foot in front of the other without any assumptions of where I'm going or why.  I try to catch myself when I start down yet another vision, another fantasy, another self-important tale.  I go forward without knowing: trusting that, loving that.  And I let.

The Insucure Writer's Support Group: March

Thanks to  Lauren Hennessy, Lisa Buie-Collard, Lidy,Christine Rains, and Mary Aalgaard for hosting!

I wanted this to be an empowered post.  A "go get 'em", "fly your freak flag high" kind-of post.  But I admit it: I'm insecure.  I guess this is the place, though.

I'm currently going through the single most difficult personal issue I've ever faced in my entire life.  (And no, that's not hyperbole- I've had enough life experience by now to have some pretty dark stuff to choose from and this is the worst.  Though unfortunately I doubt i'll be able to say that on my death bed- but one battle at a time.)  This experience, not surprisingly, is flooding me with so much pain I can barely stay afloat.  And I'm trying, really trying, to access that stuff and use it because of the whole idea that the best art comes from the worst pain.

Here's the problem (and the source of my insecurities): it's some pretty crazy stuff.  I'm letting out raw, unedited psychoses on the page and putting it out there for the world to see and it seems (or i'm concerned) that it's too raw for anyone to connect to.  Of all my crazy analogies and memoir-style entries not a single one of them has gotten a comment.  (Not that I usually get millions of people here at this site but I get a few.)  And honestly, I don't really feel like it's fair to blame anybody for that.

As much as I advocate for the need to be raw and honest and put out there what you need to put out there I do recognize that art needs to be at least somewhat accessible- or understandable.  You can't make up your own language and then be upset when no one understands what you're saying.

And part of me thinks it's just a question of timing- right now, in the thick of it, I can barely even make sense of it so how could anyone else?  People take time to process and figure stuff out and the story takes on texture and an arc and ending- those are the ones that make the biggest bang.  Everyone who's written a memoir has already gone through the thing they wrote the memoir about.  Cheryl Strayed didn't start writing Wild while she was hiking the PCT.  Elizabeth Gilbert didn't start the first draft of Eat, Pray, Love while she was eating, praying and loving her way around the world.

So I guess i'm trying to answer my own question and console myself that there is a place for all this, just in a different time, with new perspective and understanding.  But that makes me wonder if I should be posting this stuff, if I should be putting it out there at all.  Or if the right place to say these things is in a journal where it can sit and marinate for a while.  And if that is the case, how do I keep up with writing everyday when the only thing that comes to mind is the pain?  How do I keep up with my year of writing dangerously when the stuff i'm writing is too dangerous?

I would honestly appreciate real feedback from folks who have struggled with these same questions.  Please, don't just say "hi"- say something real.  I need it right now.

Thank you.

The Story

We all tell stories.  Some as transient as clothes or quick jokes that can't be repeated too often- they go out of style.  Some as permanent as bones which act as the pillars to hold up our legacy.  We use them to define ourselves, our world, our lives.  We use them to explain our existence.

But stories are told by storytellers- those who have wit and charisma to spice up the dull parts and add tension and terror where it's needed.  Those who can lilt their words and lengthen their pauses to lull the listener into calm or excitement.   Those who remember how to spot in the crowd, how to deliver the punch line.  The story is just a tool in the aresenal, and it's meaning is given to it by the story teller.

All of our lives are stories, every moment being cataloged and remembered for a specific purpose.  As we tell these stories, as we repeat them over and over again, the truth gets foggier and foggier.  The events they were based on aren't as clearly remembered.  The details get left in favor of the overall message, the purpose of the story.

And what happens when the story breaks?  When the message doesn't match the facts?  Well then the arguing begins.  "That's not how I remember it".  "It didn't happen the way you're saying it did."  "You're exaggerating."  We quibble about the details, we get lost in the facts (none of which are clearly remembered), we get angry at the missed points or the lack of continuity.

And all the while, we miss that we're not telling the same story anymore.  We miss that the purpose has changed.  We miss the message, because the details aren't clear anymore and we can't rebuild the power the tale once had.

It hurts when a story breaks.  It hurts when we realize that maybe it was just a story- that the powerful, almost magical way it carried us was perhaps just a creation of the storytellers.  It hurts when we realize that the facts that made it up in the first place are gone, replaced by memories hand-selected by the story because they supported the message.  It hurts when we can't tell the story anymore because it doesn't feel true.

And when the story breaks down, when the storytellers run out of words... the silence is deafening.

Packing

You don't think about the end when you're at the beginning.  I remember when I moved in- it was a sunny day and I felt so light I thought I might fly over.  I'd been sleeping there for weeks already, slowly emptying out the apartment of belongings and clothes.  The last day, loading the truck and handing in the keys I kept thinking "this is how it's supposed to be."

It was just the two of us- no help was needed.  But I was strong and independent and I carried as much as I could myself.  Getting the dresser in required some tetris skills and I climbed over the bookcase to pull it into place, effectively trapping myself in the truck behind high- stacked wooden furniture.  I couldn't figure out my footing trying to climb out so he reached his hand for me.  Before I knew it he'd pulled me out and thrown me over his shoulder as if I weighed nothing, as if I was just as light as I felt.  I laughed and screamed and the thought repeated: "this is how it's supposed to be."

Now, looking out at half packed boxes and bubble wrap the house looks alien, haunted.  Almost like a crime scene- something happened here that shouldn't have happened.  My room which was for years my space to keep all my nick-nacks and crafts, all my stuffed animals and books, all my things that I collected had become a liability- too much work to be done in the time agreed before I had to get out.  These things which I'd spent years amassing as proof of my happy life... pictures and programs from plays and concerts.  Boxes of Christmas, birthday and anniversary cards collected for happy reminiscence- now too painful to look at.  But I can't bring myself to throw them away.  So they get packed along with all the rest- more ghosts to haunt me later.

There are gifts everywhere- the little kitten stuffed animal he'd hidden tickets to a concert in, a little ape with devil horns and a heart he'd given me for Valentines, plaques and personalized frames he'd used to commemorate my achievements.  The things we keep to remind us that we are loved.  Now bubble wrapped and packed for a later time when I am strong enough to face it, for a time when just breathing doesn't take as much effort.  Something happened here that shouldn't have happened.

The threat of crying lingers so close to the surface I could trip over it, but I desperately cling to the details- what will fit where, what to label the box, how to protect the precious contents.  It's mechanical, concrete, blessedly logical and my brain can comprehend it- unlike those tears.  Unlike the question of how this happened.  It shouldn't have happened.

But it did.  Like it does for so many, like so many others running around with their own ghosts.  I am one of the haunted now.  And I bring my ghosts with me.

The Wall

It started out as a pebble, an inconsequential thing that wouldn't even cause one to trip as they walked with ease across the space.  They fell into each other easily and love blossomed the way it always does.  It didn't matter that the pebble was chipped off of something much bigger- neither of them were looking, neither of them sought to see.

As more stones were added, no alarms were raised.  Everyone carries something with them, everyone is weighed down by something.  Here was the place to unburden, to stop bearing the load, to let go.  But the stones were collecting, even then.

Over time, habits developed, as they always do.  A thought or idea not expressed, another stone added.  A feeling strongly felt but denied, another stone added.  Fears and potential disasters holding back the lovers- stone, stone, stone.

But there was still love there.  And the barrier wasn't thick enough to block out their voices, it could not prevent their touch.  They reached each other, still.  And they loved deeply.

Neither one noticed as the wall was built through large and small interactions, through words unspoken and feelings stifled, through hurts and injuries and exhausted options.  Neither one dared to label the difficulty in reaching through, the impossibility of maintaining contact.  Neither one was willing to say that they couldn't see.

And everyday life went on.  Without destruction, without change.  Ignorance is bliss, as they say.  But day after day, the patterns repeated themselves.  Day after day, the wall grew.

They it hit on in a surprise battle, erupting over the slightest push to the now firm tower of stone between them.  A touch and it's extent was realized, it's mass registered.  But they couldn't allow themselves to see, couldn't confront the reality.  Too many stones, too long, too tall, too impenetrable.  Best to leave it be, better to pretend.

The next eruption was sudden and violent- a full-on sprint against the wall and fast, painful recoil.  There were serious injuries- broken bones, bloody limbs, egos on life support and confusion all around. How had such a huge barrier gotten between them?  How long had it been there?  Could they break through?

They yelled to each other over the towering height of the wall and their answers were muffled and faded by the time they reached the bottom.  Their anger intensified and attacks were launched on both sides.  They threw more stones at the wall, trying to break through.  They scratched and clawed at the surface, trying to find a crack they deepen.  The screamed in frustration and beat their fists against the surface, desperate to be heard, to be seen, to be reached.

But the wall was old, older than either could ever allow themselves to admit, and it's barrier stood fast.  Words unspoken are powerful blocks to build upon.

In the end, both sat on wither side- exhausted, spent.  Their energy drained, their spirits defeated.  Eventually, they would pick themselves up and walk off- away from the wall and the person on the other side.  They would tell stories of their isolation, their attempts to break through, their failure.  They would cry and rage and finally drop.  And then, one day, they would go looking for another lover- careful to avoid any stones.

The Middle

There are two different worlds existing in my mind and they are at war with one another.  I cannot reconcile the difference and it feels as if I'm being torn apart by the conflict.

In the past there is a rich warm history.  A family that I was part of.  A decade of love and smiles and laughter.  A decade of family photos featuring me with light in my eyes.  Of weddings, birthdays, and countless celebrations.  Of quiet moments and firm beliefs that I was home.

In the future there is a new, vibrant, wild version of myself.  A woman with fierce passions and unapologetic existence.   A woman with crazy, funky hair and stories beyond imagination.  A woman who is so self-loving that there is no room in her life for anyone else, no part of herself reserved for anyone other than her.  A woman my soul feels called to become.

And in between those two, in the middle of these two worlds, is me.  Petrified of moving forward, sure I can't go back.  Lost in the fog of my confused, frightened thoughts.  Overcome by grief so strong it robs me of breath and filled with fire so hot I cannot ignore it.

Everyone says that this is the place to be.  This is that which we seek when we call upon ourselves to live fully, without reserve.  This is the soul's battlefield and the richest, most fruitful part of my existence.

But I am breathing pain, my heart is beating pain, my brain is drowning in pain.  I am begging for a way out, for an end to this in between, for my life to take the course it must.  But my actions which direct that course, my words that drive the play forward, are trapped in the fear and pain.  Trapped in the middle.

Reading List

There's a scene in the movie Eat, Pray, Love (which is a pretty good representation of the book on the whole) in which my idol Liz Gilbert- played by the brilliant Julia Roberts- is standing at the counter of a book store, being rung up for a whole stack of books about getting over loss, starting over and rebuilding, and the like.  Her face had the characteristic puffy eyes and red cheeks of someone who's been crying heavily and often, and her body carries the exhaustion of someone who has been completely and utterly drained.  The cashier, infuriatingly helpful, points out "You know there's a whole section on divorce."

This was me today, standing at the counter in Barnes and Noble and bitching about the number of journals designed for couples in love to tell their stories and the complete and total lack of journals designed for people in my situation.  Hating myself for playing the part so completely while remembering that scene so very well.  Wondering how in the hell I got to this point in my life and thinking cynically that everyone will end up here at some point.

Plot Twist

I've done it.  I've followed through on something that I've only ever imagined before.  Sometimes in the tiniest, briefest moments of fear, sometimes in full-blown nightmare, sometimes in wistful imagination.  There's been countless moments over the years where the idea existed as a possibility.  And for the most part, I spent ten full years pushing it away.

Because I was attached to the story.  Because I wanted to be right, to have done things right and made the right choices.  Because it was comfortable and I got complacent.  Because changing your entire life around is the scariest thing we can possibly do as humans.

But here's the thing about the complacent life, or being right, or holding on too tightly to our story: it robs us of the fundamental purpose of being here, of living these lives.  I think we're here- wait for it- to grow.  That's all.  Not to reach some milestone or claim some achievement but simply to grow.  To become better versions of ourselves, more fundamentally us.

And here's the thing about growth: it requires change.  And, to use the plant analogy, a lot of manure.

I see lots of memes with pictures of sunlight shining through droplets of water.  Of the freedom we feel when sailing on the wind.  Of the vistas and grand views out on the vast expanses.  I don't see a whole lot with pictures of dirt, soil, shit.  I don't see all the dark, unintended mistakes being touted as what we want, what to look for.  But isn't that exactly what we grow in?

Don't we, like all those seeds buried deep in the dark places, feed off of the stuff that we bury?  The truths we don't want to recognize?  The actions we are too scared to take because they force us into the unknown where everything we hold dear is lost to us in order to make way for something else?

I began this process however long ago literally begging for change.  Asking the universe for my life to be taken in the direction it needed to go, no matter how frightening the prospect was, of how many things would be pulled out of alignment in order for that to happen.  And yet I find myself somewhat shocked with how quickly everything has changed.

I can't say that I'm standing on the edge of a great precipice because I've already taken the leap- I'm out of the house, out of the relationship I've been so firmly rooted in for the past decade, looking for a new pace, new daily lifestyle, new everything.  And there is fear, certainly.  And there is grief from so many harsh realities i'm facing head-on about my past.

But damned if there isn't growth. 

One Step at a Time

We've all been in crisis situations where we've heard this phrase.  I've advocated people do this countless times.  I've said it offhandedly, just tossing it out as a shared understanding, a flippant saying everyone knows.  I've offered it as a genuine, meaningful piece of advice with all the empathy I can muster behind it.  And I've said it to myself, over and over again when getting overwhelmed.  But for the life of me, I'm not sure if I've ever done it before today.

One step at time got me up a flight of stairs when my legs felt like they would buckle underneath me.  One step at a time kept me breathing through the constant threat of hyperventilation.  One step at time checked off tasks one by one when the simplest requirement was so overwhelming my mind panicked in response.

And I had to talk myself through it, every single step.  "You're just going up the stairs, that's all you're doing."  "You're just breathing, that's all you're doing."  "You're just shampooing your hair, that's all your doing."  Just.  Just.  Just.  Because anything more was impossible.

I have to believe there will ultimately be value in this.  I have to believe my empathy will be stronger, my caring more genuine, my understanding improved.  I have to believe that this is how growth happens.  Because that belief keeps me taking those steps, one step at a time.