The Fragility of Becoming

As of late, I've had a really hard time getting up in the morning. I wake up to shallow breathing and tears streaming down my face. I've lost feeling in my hands and don't have the strength to make a fist( I end up laying on them to regain some blood flow). Memories come flooding in and I'm reminded that what I went through is not a bad dream but a new reality. And it's goddamn terrifying. After a solid twenty minutes of laying in bed calming myself down and reasoning with myself that I need to get up and face the world, I go into my bathroom and look in the mirror.

My dark circles are a shade of plum, my complexion is sallow and dull, and my hair looks like it's been dipped in Vaseline. I strip off my pajamas and turn on the shower. I wait for the water to heat up and I can see what weeks of barely stomaching food has done to my body. I can count my ribs like planks on a xylophone. A sick part of me is pleased. Then I take a closer look. "Would he want me now? Am I enough now?" It's at this moment that I literally hate this person who has taken my mind and body hostage. I committed self-love suicide to hold onto a love that took me away from myself. I don't know who the fuck this weak person is that is standing in front of me. I feel uncomfortable in this skin as if it's been shrunk three sizes too small. I know this feeling well. It's the feeling of becoming. Becoming someone new, different, and unfamiliar.

I've spent almost a decade going through the garbage of my past in therapy. I carefully went through my childhood, made it through my formative years and started to embrace myself (with many hiccups along the way) into adulthood. I used to feel unstoppable in the knowledge that I knew who I was. Now, I'm not so sure of anything anymore. I understand that it is not "attractive" to acknowledge going through a hard time especially a breakup. It's like all social mores give allowance to traumatic experiences except for matters of the heart. I know that I am not showing the image of the unruffled, rejected female who carries on strongly despite her loss. No, I'm showing the realness of it all. Regardless of my loss of self-knowledge that has drifted into the ether, I do know that I am real. I've always been real and honest about what hurts.

I always thought, "I'm never going to lose myself to another human being. That's beyond unhealthy and no one should have that much power over a person." Well, that's logic talking and not emotions. The truth: I got lost and now I'm trying to find myself again with a bunch of fragmented pieces. The truth: I feel fucking broken and I don't know who I am anymore. And I know that is not a "flattering" quality for a person who should have self-respect and dignity. The truth isn't pretty and the truth doesn't always take into consideration self-respect and dignity; the truth simply is.

I knew something hadn't been right for a long time but I kept thinking if I was always trying then it would have to get better, right? I could feel myself slipping away. I was losing my fire. I am the only person to blame for this feeling and new way of being. But I wanted to keep wearing the rose-colored glasses. I had fought for a person. I had given almost two years of my life. I gave my all and then some, and I wasn't going to stop until I got exactly what I was promised: a future that was bright and filled with a love so deep that the ocean would be jealous (thanks Rupi Kaur for that metaphor). It was because of this "fantasy future" that I morphed into someone that I no longer recognize. I still had a voice but it fell on deaf ears. I could still feel that lion's roar inside me but it was quickly quieted because I would rather have him in my life than not at all. I chalked it up to, "Love is different for everyone and this is how my love is going to be."

I know the love that I gave was genuine, pure, and was abundant beyond measure. I'm not ashamed of the love I gave. I'm ashamed that I chose to be blind to things in the name of love. The person that I loved is not a bad person. I've come to the conclusion that they love differently from me. Yes, it broke me. I feel broken because of this loss and I pick myself up while cutting my fingers on pieces of the past. It wasn't supposed to be like this. I thought this was it, and I was getting everything that I waited for. As my sister says, "there are no 'supposed to be's' in life" and she's right. Just like the truth, life simply is. We broke up, that IS what happened. Our love didn't survive that IS what happened. Who I am right now, IS who I am meant to be in this moment in time.  Who I am right now IS a part of becoming a new version of myself.

I may feel fragmented, lost, and rejected, but this is the fragility of becoming.

Short Story Post

In a pitiful effort to get my writing chops back, I will be posting some short stories. Constructive criticism welcome. Here is a piece that I wrote in college and have toyed with it a bit. The assignment was to write out of our comfort zone and the professor chose an adjective which our story had to emulate. My word was "gritty." The piece could be considered a trigger warning and doesn't reflect any personal experiences. 

I stared at the orange prescription bottle on our old oak table. My chipped black nails tapped in an incessant beat of "one, two, three, one, two, three." It was day seven. It was day seven, in which I felt pulled to that small container that held the promise of "fixing me." My mind was in a tug-of-war between the thrill of leaving and the fear of never returning. If I told them, they would send me back to her. She made me crazy. Her almond eyes, her hair pulled back into a severe bun and her voice. A voice completely plastic that spewed bullshit from a "Chicken Soup for the Mentally Unstable's Soul" book sleeve. She wore her degree like a brooch; shiny and pretty for all to see but was holding on by the thread. I think she might be more unstable than I am. Which leads me to now. Her sessions obviously didn't cure me. I'm slouched in the kitchen chair and have become uncomfortable as my tailbone grinds into the wood, a subtle reminder that I can move or continue to feel, because there is always a choice. No one is home. I reach for the bottle. I test its weight in my hand. How is it possible that these little pills can alter so much? They can alter my brain and my life. I push down on the lid and free the pills, they are cut like emeralds and what I imagined my engagement ring to be. Tiny gems scatter across years of family dinners and school projects, one pill drops to the floor. I hear the garage door open. I hastily swipe my hand across the sea of pills and watch as they rain down onto the ground. I hear my mom opening the door and that's when I decide it's time to get up.

Long time, no post!

It has been a good, long while since I have last written a blog post. I decided to clean up my old posts and toss them. Some represented who I still currently am, while others I couldn't relate to anymore. Either way, I wanted a fresh start. I'll still be writing about silly anecdotes about my everyday life but they will be focused on the challenges that millennial face in dating, careers, self image and more. Basically, not a whole lot has changed from my old posts. I suppose my new posts will add a touch of maturity. Let me say, this blog does not reflect my professional writing style as a "writer" and is purely conversational and written in the "millennial" vernacular. Let's see what life has in store for me.

My blog isn't sunshine and rainbows or crafting. My blog is "oh sh*t, that happened" and " did I really just say that out loud?"

Things are getting real. Things are getting serious. Things are getting decidedly intimate. STOP. This isn't about a relationship, gross. My blog is just that, it's MY blog. This means on a semi-regular basis you will be getting a dose of me and my thoughts on EVERYTHING. Mainly, I will be writing anecdotes about events in my life with a fair amount of sarcasm, vulgarity and plain embarrassment. I will have "Carrie Bradshaw" moments. You know, she ended her posts with a question that somehow led her to thought provoking self discovery? Yeah, those moments will happen. Granted, I think most of my self discovery will be common sense that I've  managed to ignore in my mere 23 years.

In the words of Tina Fey and Amy Poehler, " Bitches get stuff done."
So get stuff done.
-BK