finding my words

K. 26. Learning how to write again, breathe again, laugh again.

[lovewithoutwords]

a list of things that feel okay:

A clean apartment. Like freshly vacuumed clean, where it almost is a bit warmer and you just collapse happily on the couch. 

Honey cinnamon coffee.

Allowing my lungs to expand, despite their frantic attempts to quit on me. Inhale, exhale, you know how to do this. 

Adding the word ‘maybe’ to spiraling thoughts. Maybe I’m not a piece of garbage. Maybe I won’t fail. Maybe, maybe I am not being judged by every person who sees me.

T-shirts and sweaters that feel like you’re returning home, that don’t tug or pull or even need a second thought.

A realization that reinventing myself is a process that is always occurring, and that it may be contradictory to discuss it as a choice when it so clearly, painfully, slap-in-the-face-fully chose me.

[lovewithoutwords]

walking contradiction

vulnerability is supposed to be strength. that’s what people say. to be vulnerable isn’t weakness. but i think there’s a gap between people’s words and actual beliefs because vulnerability has left me stranded, isolated, spread thin without legs to stand on. 

perhaps i’m doing it wrong. perhaps people don’t know how to enter into it fully, so they push away anything that feels foreign or new. i’ve plenty of examples of that to support it, both anecdotal and researched. or perhaps it’s me. is it always just me?

why do i always feel alone, trapped in my mind? why is my first assumption, “they are going to hate me” or “i’m going to fail”? all these worst case scenarios are dizzying. why am i without confidence? why do i both know i’m capable and not believe i’m capable? why have i always been the one to lean on, without anyone to share the burden? what if i need someone to lean on now?

[lovewithoutwords]

starting somewhere

people keep asking me, “how are you doing?” and i never have the words to answer that question. half of the time, i’m fine. but also not at all. and the other half of the time, i’m crumbing. but also not at all. i’m caught between optimism and realism, constantly wondering when i’ve run out of time to grieve, when it’s time to move on, when will i notice peoples’ eyes glazing over because they ask but they don’t have space to offer to hear what the answer is.

some people ask to be nosy. some people ask to make sure that we’re still okay, to see if i have room for their joy and my grief. some people ask because they care. some people don’t ask because they care. and i don’t know what i hate the most. radio silence or unintentional insensitivity? comparisons lead to anger, which i have to let out slowly, like i’ve shaken up a soda can and i have to sloooowly let it crack open. 

i figured putting some thoughts down would be a good way to process. i feel like i’ve experienced love and loss and deep grief and sadness without the words to describe it. maybe this will help create some space for them to show up and take up the space that I need.