Handle with care

Damn, I have really been struggling to find the right words for the past few months. Maybe I haven’t been trying that hard, though. Or maybe I’ve been too focused on finding the “right words.” There are no right words. Just honest ones.

I feel like my life comes and goes in waves. Some days I feel present and available and free. That’s when life suddenly doesn’t seem like so much work anymore. At least for a little while. Then there are the days right after the “good” days. I wouldn’t call them bad days…because you definitely know when you’re having a bad day. I prefer to think of it as a survival day. They’re not good, they’re not bad, you just aren’t really there. Just trying to make it through the day.

To be awake is not to be alive, just as surviving is a far cry from living. The good days make you realize how much time you spend surviving. I think that’s the true test of your quality of life. Do the good days outweigh the survival days? Or are the majority of your days taxing on your soul? People often confuse quality with comfort. Quality is living genuinely and honestly. It’s being present and pursuing things out of passion, not fear. Comfort is surviving. It’s doing what you need to maintain because the idea of change is so frightening. The unknown is so often better than the comfort you’re settling for, but comfort promises control and that is the price most are willing to pay.

I used to prioritize my comfort above everything else. I stayed in meaningless relationships because the comfort of not confronting the truth was more important to me than living honestly. It’ll drain the life out of you if you let it.

“The truth will set you free.”

Why am I so mad at the idea of something so cliche hitting so close to home? That might be my biggest fear, becoming a cliche. A stereotype. Exactly what they want me to be. Just like them.

Who are “they,” you ask? The ones telling you how to live your life. The ones that think they know best despite their own ineptitude to accountability. It’s the resentful parent that would rather place blame than compromise on their pride. It’s the gaslighting friend that was never really your friend. The opportunistic boy that broke your heart. They’re all cliches. Everyone knows them. Their stories all end the same.

Small. Empty. Lonely. Dull.

I’ve spent all of my days avoiding becoming one of them. But when everyone around you is a walking cliche, it becomes so fucking hard to be different. Not because you don’t want to be. But because everyone makes you feel like you’re doing something wrong by being yourself. It’s such a burden to bear. Going through life misunderstood, always thinking you’re wrong. Wrong to like those “hooker boots” as mom would call them. Wrong to like that “gangster rap” that dad forbade you from playing under his roof. RnB. It was RnB music. But they’re not prejudiced. They just “like what they like.” Well, so did I. So why was it wrong for me? Just because you couldn’t open your mind to think outside of your own understanding? That’s no way to live. Perspective is everything in this life.

Writing allows me to explore and develop my perspective safely. I think I need to remember that that’s what it’s about. That’s what it’s always been about. Exploration, growth, honesty, authenticity. It felt like I was forcing it, which is why I had to take a break. Step away until I needed a safe place to speak. Until I was ready to speak freely again.

I need to understand the way I’m feeling because my perspective has been fluctuating a lot lately. I’ve been so angry. Angry because things could’ve been so much different, knowing then what I know now. Knowledge is power but it’s also a promise for resentment.

As you get older, all of life’s illusions are shattered and we’re left to make sense of its splintering pieces. That’s how I feel most days. Like I’m cornered in a room, barefoot, surrounded by all of my broken pieces.

On one side are all of my coulda-woulda-shouldas. How much different things would have been had my parents paid enough attention to notice I had a crippling mental illness. How much more successful I would be right now if I’d been given a fair chance.

Down the middle lays all of my traumas. All of the abuse. All of the pain I endured and its weight that I immediately placed back on my own shoulders. The disrespect I allowed. The silent nights I struggled alone, too afraid to ask for help. So sure I’d know what the answer would be. So sure I deserved to suffer. I’d gotten myself into those situations, hadn’t I? I allowed those men to violate me, didn’t I? I left my doors open, allowing the world to come in and put up its feet while I carried all of its weight. Just because I was afraid of being alone. Now that I’ve put it back down and walked away, the world is angry at me. And it’s the least lonely I’ve ever been.

To my right is my truth. The pieces that once made up my foundation, before it cracked. Riding on dad’s lap as he drove us down another back road, singing Shania Twain at the top of our lungs as he let me steer. Shopping with mom because we were due for some “retail therapy.” We bonded over clearance shoes and my love for fashion was born.

The super serrated pieces are the moments I needed someone that would never be there. Had never been there. Someone that listened to understand, not to dismiss. “You’ll be fine. Pain is weakness leaving the body. Never let anyone see you sweat, show no emotion. People have it so much worse, quit being ungrateful.”

Those are the pieces that hurt to pick up the most. Those are the ones that make the most sense. Why is it hard for you to let others in? To have healthy boundaries and seek out a love you deserve, rather than what makes those around you comfortable. Those are the pieces that made you who you are now. These are the pieces that broke you. And these are the same pieces that will heal you. These pieces are demanding my attention now. These pieces will break me or set me free, depending on how I handle them. Handle them with care. Handle yourself with care.