Secrets

I read somewhere once that when you're a writer, a real writer, it's in your blood; that putting words to a page isn't as much of a pastime as it is a necessity. I don't know if I would consider myself a writer, per se. What I do know is this; as I live through each day, each experience, each moment, and all the cascades of emotions that come along with them, they sit like jagged stones inside of me, shifting to lay heavy on my chest and catch in my throat until it feels like I'm choking and the only thing that makes it easier to breathe is this. Here. My fingers tapping furiously against the keyboard or wrapped around the solid length of a pen as it scratches and mars the page until it's full and I am empty and I can finally, blessedly, exhale.

Sometimes, when I sit down to write, it's for a purpose; a business e-mail, an essay, or in an attempt to make you laugh. But more often than not, I do it for me. I do it because I have to. I do it because, if I don't, I'm afraid that I'll drown in the words and feelings swimming around inside of me.

I've tried to blog a few times this past month; I wanted to give you all something fun, something lighthearted, but every time I sit down, all I can connect with are the things I try so hard to hide, and my deepest, darkest secrets come tumbling out in an avalanche of confession.

Like how often I am bombarded by both literal and figurative pieces of my mother left behind, and how they still cut me to the core so swiftly that I'm left stumbling; the hurried curve of her handwriting on a bottle of vitamins she'd purchased for me, instructing me how to take them; the smell of her perfume on a stranger passing by; strands of her hair in the hairdryer that I inherited; the sound of her voice on a forgotten voicemail; the photo of her, my sister and I next to her statue of Mary that is the first thing I see when I wake up each morning and the last thing I see before falling asleep each night. How six months later, on an almost daily basis, I still mindlessly pick up my phone to text her for advice or comfort, and in the moment that I realize I can't anymore, it's like losing her all over again.

Or how, for longer than I'd like to admit, I'd been walking that fine line between friendship and something more with a man for whom my craving for physical proximity often seemed like an annoyance, and for whom my requests to spend time together often seemed like a chore to be crossed off an exhausting list. A man who wasn't the type to readily proffer the compliments or kisses or emotional intimacy that I've come to realize that I both want and need in a relationship. A man who often left me staring at my silent phone and feeling so very, very small. How none of this makes him a bad person; he just very clearly couldn't, or wouldn't, entertain the thought of love, and yet, for too long, I stayed, fighting tirelessly, because I wanted to be the reason behind his smile, the same way he was the reason behind mine. How I still climbed into bed beside him even after I realized all these things, and how, in those awful, sleepless nights spent staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out why I couldn't be enough, I felt more alone than I had ever felt on my own. How I was not in love with him, but I still very firmly love him for everything he is and everything he is not and all those unfilled spaces in-between, even knowing that him and I, together, are a memory, an experience, a hurt that will heal but a lesson that will not be forgotten.

And how, during the last night that we spent together, I curled up against him and breathed him in deep, counting the tumultuous beat of his heart while trying desperately to commit every minuscule detail to memory... and when he wrapped his arms around me, in that moment, the world burned so brightly that I had to close my eyes or risk being blinded and I thought to myself, broken or not, this, right here, is what makes life worthwhile. 

How, although at that point it wasn't as much about losing him as the loss in general, since I had never really had him in the first place, that thought, and that moment, almost tore me in two.

How I dream each night in vivid colors and feelings, so crisp that I can almost taste them bursting on my tongue like that first exploding bite of an apple, of all the things I've ever wanted; and how, when I wake up every morning to realize that they were only dreams, that realization turns into a bitter lozenge of sadness and loss rolling around on my tongue. How I've come to learn that just because I never really had something in the first place doesn't mean I can't miss it frantically; that I won't feel its absence like the indignant phantom pain in a lost limb.

Or how I'd been living in a fog of apathy for far too long, watching life pass and wondering when I would have the courage and the energy to become a part of it again; wondering when my smiles would start to feel real instead of an attempt at reassuring myself and everyone around me that I hadn't changed. And how, when I boarded the plane for Austin last Tuesday morning after a few very emotionally charged weeks, that all changed; how I watched the tips of our wings kiss the smoky oranges and pinks of the sunrise and thought, for the first time in forever, I can't wait to see what the future has in store. How thrilling it was to finally believe that maybe, just maybe, it would be better than all that I was leaving behind, and how that single spark of hope was, somehow, enough.

Austin is a beautifully chaotic city with the uniquest of inhabitants who, paradoxically, all seem to find joy in the same thing: honoring their deepest passions by breathing life into them instead of trying to hide them, the way so many of us do because we are so terrified of the uncertain. The city just pulsates with the joy of these people whose fingertips are tripping up against the wildest of their dreams and when you walk down its streets and brush shoulders with its inhabitants you are changed, somehow, for the better. No one is out of place there, and as I stared up at the stars that warm Friday night, stars that were stubbornly visible even in the midst of the city lights, life started to make just a little more sense. I was exhausted, and hungry, and sunburned, but I never wanted to leave. I wished I could hold on to that feeling forever, that I could bottle it up and carry it with me so that on the days that I couldn't find my way to happy, it would be there waiting for me; that full-to-bursting sensation that you feel when you finally find the place, emotional or physical or spiritual, that you really, truly belong.

I know now, after almost 30 years, that I am stubborn. That I learn best through trial and error because right or not, I am impatient, and I want instant gratification. That this often leaves me trying to fit square pegs in round holes, all in the name of time, which more often than not, leaves me disappointed. I know now that time... and life... are not things that can be rushed, and that when something is meant to happen, it will. I know now that I had to make so many mistakes so that I could learn to recognize what I don't want, which will allow me to shift my focus, finally, on to what I do. I can see now how far I have come, into a career that I love, and about to move out into my own space for the first time... no parents, no roommates, just me and all of the endless possibilities that the future holds. I understand now that I am a work in progress; that I'm not quite where I want to be, and thats okay, because whether it's one step or ten, I am making progress each and every day.

And besides... it's the "getting there" that's the fun part.