How To Survive Hell
What I was taught through life fucking me over in the eye just right.
Fuck This Year With A Stick
There’s more things than I can count on my roster of bullshit this year. A genetic heart condition that may kill me, an ankle injury that debilitated me, and the loss of my career during my recovery. The whole world seemed to crumble around me.
There were times I couldn’t breathe because everything threatened to drown me underneath. To pull me under the surface and refuse to release me until I choked on all this.
The heart condition was discovered thanks to my ankle and it’s the same thing that nearly killed my grandmother more times than I can count. Just slather on the fun shit of being hit from all directions.
On top of all this, I’m losing a person that mattered more to me than anyone else. They were so much of my life, how I lived, that I mainly had them to rely upon. Yet, with all this I’ve survived. I’ve become stronger, fitter mentally and physically. Looking toward the future with apprehensive excitement, even with the death of my most important relationship.
It’s Not You, or Me, It’s Us
We’ve decided that before we fall into the pattern of my parents dysfunction to sever the ties from each other. Before we end up hating each other, while there still is that acknowledgement we’re okay people.
We’re just not good for each other. Or, we’re the best for each other in that platonic state. Since the desire we had for each other dried years ago.
It’s a sigh of relief to move forward. When we were trapped in a spinning whirlwind of bullshit and trying to make compromises. Attempt after attempt to change and morph when really we can’t. Or more important, we won’t, and I don’t want us to change the other.
I’ve evolved from a homebody who doesn’t trust a soul to someone going out rather often. I dance, even go to a beer place to have Nitro coffee and write Medium posts.
Twenty three year old girls exclaim just how cool I am. And I snort, because they don’t have a clue what I am. The visible scars on my skin and the invisible ones that I hide so well.
There’s the remnant of my ankle surgery where I couldn’t walk for an entire year. A chunk of my skin is still missing under my ankle bone. It aches with the residual nerve pain that I pretend I can’t feel. My memory replays the constant pill popping I did to survive. It was my beginning, my end, the ritual of every day I lived for months.
At the start after my surgery I’d move for a half and hour and be in so much pain that the only solution was to burn the nerves in my spine. It being all neurological meant either pills, or that other extreme.
Thanks but no thanks, I’ll figure this shit out. Each day I increased my time until I was walking for an hour. A month later I’d push a little further, until I’m finally at this point. Back within my career of nine years that I loved and missed desperately.
Being Alone Within a Crowd
There are times where I’m surrounded by people getting drunk, yet inherently alone and sober. It’s an interesting duality where we can be in a crowd, and still feel so separate from humanity.
I’m fiercely independent to a fault, stubborn and strong willed. It’s why as a kid I chose my own company versus others. If you sent me to my room that was the most perfect bliss that I could hardly contain my glee. Isolation? Yes, please. How’d you know my favorite way to be?
It’s been years and years poured into this relationship that morphed into more and more of a friendship. This person ‘gets me’ yet doesn’t get this new me. With one of our fights they expressed how I used to like the same things they did. But now… I’m willing to put myself out there and be considered a fool.
The death of this relationship was required. We just couldn’t pull the trigger and I’m always the one holding the smoking gun. But, we’re still civil as I work toward having my own place and what is mine, and what is yours. After years of accumulated time together there are things that you can easily go have this and I’ll take that.
He’s methodical about it, I’m just as logical. We talk about coffee makers that are given, and which dining plates we’ll keep. I guess that’s the logistics of living this and then how it all gets divided at the end.
Where is the end? Sometimes I feel like we’re still continuing even though we both agree we’re over. I’m reminding myself what it’s like to be that girl who craves isolation again.