Month: February 2022

It’s been a long time since I was able to genuinely feel gratitude. Its been months since I was able to freely give thanks. Naturally being an optimistic, carefree person, this shift in mindset has been debilitating.
Earth shattering.
The most terrifying ego death I’ve ever experienced.

These relentless feelings of hopelessness and despair is not because I don’t have a reason to be grateful. I know more than anyone that I have so many people in my corner, rooting for me, and protecting me every day. I know more than anyone that I have countless people in my life bending over backwards to help me succeed, while I’ve felt like I’m out here fighting for my fucking life.

“I’ve just been in survival mode for so long now,” I told Carina, “Any inkling of an emotion is taking me 2-4 weeks to even indentify.”

Just get through this week, has been the mantra to my life, since Thanksfuckingiving.

You can’t heal in the environment that broke you, we know that.
But you also can’t heal in any other toxic environment.

I’ve wanted to seek counseling for awhile. I wanted guidance on maneuvering my ever-deteriorating relationship with each of my parents. Or at least find reassurance that No Contact wasn’t heartless. But, I know that I’m no good at lying; I knew that I would sit there and speak honestly about the details of ALL my personal relationships. I put it off for so long. I was embarrassed to admit to another adult human being that even though I was painfully aware of the toxicity levels, I’d still spent last Fall entertaining Nick.

“You’re not benefiting from No Contact with your parents, if you date people just like them.”
She basically impaled me.

Just having the therapy appointment on my calendar gave me a sense of relief for weeks leading up to it. The ability to be 100% honest with someone, without receiving words or looks of judgment in return, was a level of liberating I somehow didn’t anticipate. The ability to be honest in an environment that not only welcomed it, but accepted it, and moved forward with it, was something I’d rarely encountered in life.
I suddenly became hyperaware that I’d been confiding in the wrong people, for most of my life.

“If they’re not building with you, they’re destroying you.” Carina told me two weeks ago, while she urged me to re-evaluate the people I’ve allowed so close to me.

I heard myself laugh yesterday, and for the first time in months, I actually recognized it. I actually recognized myself. I spent the night in the kitchen cooking dinner for my friends, and we sat around the table telling each other funny stuff that happened during the day. I’m grateful for the simple, miniscule details that go into making me feel whole.

The gratitude is finally flowing freely through my mind again. The optimism it takes to give thanks, has finally returned. The unconditional love, support, and understanding I’ve been surrounded by has scoured the impatience, anger, and paranoia that I’d been stuck in for months.

Grateful, is an understatement.

“I need your feedback on something,” I told him as I dropped my backpack onto the back of his dining room chair.
“Rocks?” he glanced up from the other side of the kitchen island.
“Nah, I’m good,” I casually waved my hand above my head, looking up just long enough to catch him scrunching his nose.
“Gross.” He laughed as he poured the last of the whiskey into an empty glass.

I thought back to 2019, El Verano de Divorcio:
I’d made a habit of letting myself into his house. After work. On the weekends. After the bar. Borrow power tools. Play with his goats. Steal his booze. Fuck in the shower.
He never seemed to mind.
“That summer was crazy,” he told me last year, elbows on the bar.
I shook my head with a laugh, “no kidding. Literally just flying by the seat of our pants.”
“The whole time!” He laughed.

I stopped to take a look around his house. My plants in the kitchen sink. My laundry across the couch. My shoes lined up at the front door next to his.
I remembered one summer morning, when I’d found my earrings neatly placed on my outdoor table. I spent the day trying to figure out why my feelings were hurt? I’d asked him to drop them off, and here they were;
I loved the idea of my stuff at his place.

“Sounds like it’s been a one-sided relationship,” he told me after I’d settled into the couch. “And to be honest, I’d be upset, too.”
I watched him move about the kitchen before he looked up at me. I always wonder how obvious it is when I’m battling the tears welling up in my eyes. I always wonder how it’s possible that he’s so good at nurturing my inner child.
She’s literally always screaming for emotional validation. My poor, sweet girl.

He suddenly turned himself to face me on the couch: “I can’t believe how well you’re handling the stress.”
Fuck, I thought to myself. We’d had far too many talks that started just like this one, for me to not see what was coming next. He’s gonna make me talk about my feelings.
“Glad I’m hiding it well,” I huffed impassively.
I thought about all the times we’d sat around the house before, and he’d randomly assault me with my own feelings like this. The air was still for a moment, and I wished so badly he’d just put his focus back on the game. I could feel his eyes on me still: “how are you handling the stress?”
He was really going for the gold on this.
I paused for a moment. I wanted to dramatically throw my arms in the air: You’re fucking looking at it, guy.
I raised the glass of whiskey he’d handed me earlier.
He laughed, and finally looked away: “I’m sorry so much is happening at one time.

Not every lose is a loss.”