x, 1

I started therapy the other day. A fulfillment of a promise I made to myself this year. One of many.

I hope you know everything you tell me is confidential

I know. I laughed, nervously. It was over the phone because of my newfound anxiety. Her voice felt like the first warm apple pie during a long winter. Was everything she told me confidential?

I cried within the first fifteen minutes. The kind of crying that waterfalls from your eyes with minimal sound and no force. The kind of crying that happens when everything of you is unbelievably exhausted.

I’ve been having anxiety attacks, aggressive, frightening, panic attacks. My stress has been leading to insomnia, causing an inability to focus or have regular, normal emotions. I no longer like being outside. Around people. I have developed an aversion to crowds, strangers, public spaces and unknown places. All of my previous favorite things. I cancel plans and miss flights because I find myself sobbing uncontrollably and screaming at myself, irrationally angry. I am the opposite of who I used to have always been.

Two years ago I had more hours in a day than I’ve ever had before. I suffocated myself in exponential growth and obsessive learning. I excelled in everything I attempted. One year ago I began to see the fruition of my wildest dreams.

A few months ago I started reading more biographies. Studying documentaries. Reading articles and psychological studies. Trying to find an explanation for everything I knew that started feeling wrong with me.

In autobiographies very few people mention their own crazy. They hide it in a bliss of madness; the insanity is laced through the brilliance. Most people who write about themselves romanticize their own psychosis. Or maybe it’s more simple and less sinister. In your own worldview, your mistakes are footnotes in all of your greater creations.

In biographies, secondhand accounts, witness statements–these same people are crucified for their short-comings. Their failures, mental breakdowns. These people (inventors, singers, actors, musicians, writers…) become known as divas, bitches, assholes, eccentrics… famed for their talents but colorized, largely, by snippets of mental instability. They are successful “but” brash, angry, arrogant. They are great but human.

My brother once told me that living is being in a constant state of flux. I think of my mind like this: a pretty jar floating in the ocean, perfectly buoyant, surfing with the tide. And when I’m sad or not right I close my eyes: the same pretty jar, swept by currents, swirling in a typhoon. Loud. All-consuming. Suffocating. I don’t know why I was led to believe I couldn’t ask for a life raft. A pulley through the rain. I don’t know why I was led to believe I had to fight the sharks and the tides and the fury.

I lived through it alone a lot. Through the years since my father had gone. I thought it was a yearly affliction that was attached to my weakness. A parasite bonded to my insecurities: a simple issue caused by my simple lack of enough.

I didn’t know it was a possible symptom to the conditions of existence. I didn’t know it was a prevalent side effect to just being sometimes.

We are, by evolution, chasing a perfection unallowed. A race of billions praying for a profound.

I attempt to cope superficially yearly. Different methods. Breaking quarterly. Wondering why a house isn’t enough when built on unstable ground. I fight constantly with who I am, measured up next to who I should be, who I think I want to be. I close my eyes and who I am never matches with this woman in my dreams and I wonder really who put her there. This whimsical waif made of diamonds and designer that speaks with poetry, sounds like velvet and fucks like magic. This beautiful being that was all the best parts of me at once with none of the disparity. I close my eyes and dream of the purity of my heart, mind & soul in harmony.

Intimately when I’m alone what do I want most? In the dark of my bedroom, bare skin under white sateen sheets. Who am I when all the rest slips away and it’s only me at night?

If tomorrow can be designed, what do I want most? The bills paid in advance, clients to be overjoyed, employees ecstatic and productive. Business partners impressed; vacations planned, wishlists emptied and cravings sated.

 The tiny waist and beautiful curves. My own full lips and hopeful jawline. Smiling whites and slanted deep brown eyes. Soft skin and a happy glow.

At one point of my life I had all of these separately but never all at once. I want to be in love with myself like how in love I am with others. I want to be in love with myself like how in love others are with me.

I’m half a bottle of wine in and I’ve been drafting this post for two months. I’m buried in irrelevancy; dipped myself behind the curtain to do great work for people in front of it. I always wondered if I could live, survive, love myself without the vanity. My therapist says vanity is human and there are a hundred levels of it.

We’re six or so sessions deep now. She told me about the duality of my soul: the disapproving mother and the overtly loving father. When you’re three and barely cognizant your mentality is forming without your choice. When you’re twenty-six and sobbing your mentality snaps back to these pointed stages, like a rubberband in the dark. Without your choice.

I want to write a million and two words. Scream at the mountains and pray to my father. I am overwhelmingly loved by so many except for myself. I know I am severely flawed, but have always tried to do good, even at the expense of everything else.

I am behind in every goal I have ever wanted, but I am alive. Happy. Working. Trying.

Were these all the goals I actually just needed?

an ode to my favorite revolution

i found out one of my favorite bloggers in the entire world from early 2000s closed her blog and i felt such an immense sadness when i found out that i cried.

i’ve followed it since i was in seventh grade. i had no real, constant female voice through puberty and i would obsess over her coming of age posts for advice and guidance and wisdom.

i remember the words she wrote of partying, love, body dysmorphia… weight, love, writing, work, and developed my own methodology for life based on this woman from the other side of the world. when i felt the most lost or confused i would binge her blogs like the most important commandments.

there were questions i didn’t know how to ask. i was fourteen, fatherless, mentally motherless, and beyond lost. searching for femininity, sexuality, hope. a life that i could look forward to growing up: something more interesting than thirty years of schooling, missionary sex and one man for the rest of my life until i died.

i became a voracious reader of textbooks, teen fiction, adult fiction, the great poets, novelists, and at night i would still fall asleep rereading the words of a woman who made adulthood feel like something worth making it to.

i befriended her when i became old enough to: sixteen years old and unabashed about having a hero. i think about showing her this post, maybe. how the stories of her life echoed with my brothers and all of my favorite novelists when i made decisions. how special and great it is when we have our few yearly correspondences.

when i think of quitting writing or this blog of my own i think of the girl i used to be; selfishly hoping that just maybe there is another out there reading my paragraphs in the dark.

the internet is a remarkable place for showcasing remarkable souls.

thirteen years of me were so blessed to read over fifteen years of you.

thank you forever, H ♡

character building

i can feel myself slipping through my own fingertips: everything i once loved and enjoyed cascading through my skin

there are new things i love. new parts of me, new stories and collected memories. there are new things i like. people, things, methodologies. coffee in abundance, schedules, assistants, and the feeling of steady employment and exponential growth

but why does it feel like a trade? the parts of me that i loved before feel lost, gone: distant pasts existing only in polaroids, mini dresses, stilettos and bottles of don julio blanco

i reread the pages of this blog, my private journals and public musings. the way i used to write about this girl i used to know: sweet, effervescent, dangerous, reckless and stress-free. she was one hundred and fifteen pounds of magic, trailing glitter and laughter and leaving memories and happiness like wildfire

i had two rules back then: live for the story and  do it with conviction. i’m technically late twenties now: punctuated by polite nights with treasured friends instead of loud music, blacked out memories and aggressive dancing.

they say when you get older you know more about what you really want. a cat and a home and a stable income. people who love me… but im twenty-six at four in the morning and if you asked me what i was missing now maybe the answer just might be limes.

my therapist asked me what i do now when i’m sad. write, read… bury myself in work.

and she asked me what i did before when i was sad. i laughed. oh jeez… drink, eat, cry, vomit?

i’ve lived six different lives so far. maybe wanting limes isn’t as bad as chasing with them.

lessons from twenty-six

last weekend i looked in your eyes and they looked exactly like mine. you’re almost seven months and they left you alone with me for seven minutes and my heart pounded and flinched at the amount of responsibility

you are magic I whispered you will always be able to do anything you want to

i saw you smile and i felt the world melt away. your mommy and daddy love you so much, I can’t wait for you to see 

I want to tell you everything I loved being told. I wanted to hold you forever. you squirmed and fidgeted and laughed.

I panicked and gave you back. there’s so much to know. I sat on the plane and thought what I’d tell you first.

i think about the past few years. how quickly i left highschool, the eleven cities i wandered lost. the places I loved most. the people I liked least. the man I loved the most.

i hope ten years from now when you ask me questions my answer will be the same. i hope twenty years from now when you ask me what to do i tell you the truth.

choose love. when it comes to life, feeling rarely becomes regret. the memories you remember the most are the ones that you fight the strongest for. when things feel difficult, it means there’s more to learn.

don’t hurt yourself too much. nobody can protect you from heartbreak; but the world has given you people who will always love you enough to hold you through them.

we are not perfect. people were not made to be stagnant. people were not made to live their lives in one perpetual motion. the people who come into your life are still important even when they have to leave.

even if it’s hard, try to remember. the memories that hurt the most are hiding the memories that feel the best.

life is about feeling; they’re too sacred to regret. pain is a lesson. you’ll meet someone one day and they’ll feel like heaven. if you don’t allow yourself to fall, you’ll always wonder.

growth will never be hating anybody who ever made you feel. sometimes crying purifies the soul. sometimes it’s annoying, wasteful bullshit.

choose love. in yourself, first. in your family, second. and whoever chooses you, too, third.

when it gets dark: breathe easy. the sun always rises if you have enough courage to last the night.

I wish I could give this life to someone who wanted it more.

My thoughts get louder and everything feels distant. I miss the silence; the over-confidence, the cleverness. In complete irony, I miss what everyone who I’ve met before laments for: the girl.

late night ramblings with early morning mixes. somewhere between an update and a mildly depressive, pedantic word vomit

Whenever I get stressed or upset or sad I walk into the kitchen.

Sometimes I grab a bottle of 409 and scrub. Other times I empty out my fridge and try to make something I’ve never made before. Every time it ends with feeling like I am where I belong.

There’s a loneliness that happens when you treat life like a competition. Somehow everyone turns into competitor, and very few people ever turn into allies.

2019 was the year of aggressive self-discovery for me. A lesson in relationships, in business–in partnerships of romance, of finance, of familial. Lessons in who I was, who I wanted to be, and who I kept ending up like.

My mind always goes back to the two people who I came from. I’ve made a million bad mistakes and maybe thirty two good ones. The good ones are all people. Friendships and kindness I happened into that I probably had no business in having.

What do you care about in life? Honor, character, perseverance. Respect, longevity. What influences it? Maybe a hundred and one rewatches of Mulan. Jesus, how did I get here? I think sometimes when I sit down to work.

Oh my god, how did I get so lucky? I think most of the time when I sit down to work.

It’s interesting how long 500 days sounds like when it’s barely a fraction of anything relatively important in the timeline of your life. When was the last time you did something or felt something for 500 days? The last time you changed shampoo brands, used a different toothpaste or had something for the first time?

500 days is the lifespan of a child still being counted and measured by months.

500 days is the starting title and premise of a very unsettling romance film.

500 days is the amount of time it took to go from relatively nothing to stunning expertise in a very specialized career.

I used to repeat to myself over and over Everything starts with a day one and I never absolutely understood. Momentum in my life felt like sitting in a car blindfolded. I spent twenty four years of my life feeling barely above water. Can I take the blindfold off now?

I want to stop the car, but it doesn’t.

My counselor told me that people who’ve experienced life changing trauma sometimes feel afraid of happiness. My counselor told me once before about imposter syndrome.

I was sixteen, a junior flunking out of high school since I forgot how to get out of bed in the morning. I had mandatory counselor sessions every day because I was mentally high risk. Ten years later I still don’t know how to get out of bed some mornings, but I found a job where I didn’t have to.

I’ve replaced the counselor with a cat, boyfriend and a liter or two of patron. Cliches suck but everyone knows them.

People always want to talk about millennial issues and maybe the big one is the internet because it makes us lazier, less stimulated. Ten years ago I thought marijuana was a hard drug. Now I feel like hard drug lies somewhere between DHT and PCP. But once in a club bathroom one of the prettiest girls I’ve ever seen talked about how much she loved Angel Dust.

That’s when things get confusing, maybe. When you follow the beautiful, effervescent girls. Then you become one. Then you stop being one.

I’ve changed songs about fifty two times throughout writing this. I still think I’ve been through more friendships in more phases in 500 days.

People don’t like you when you’re not fun anymore. When you’re not young, lithe; free. But do you like you?