Wednesday, November 14, 2012

I am a compressed rage. I am a fearsome thing.

I'm never going to stop being angry. Like a tree growing around a fence, I don't know how to let go.

Most times now I think I'm over it and then something will remind me. A small trigger. And then I'm furious again. I could scream and cry and rage. But I tamp it back down and close the lid again. Because screaming and crying and raging won't fix it. I am never going to stop being angry.

I am a compressed rage. I am a fearsome thing. I didn't let it break me, but instead let it push me forward harder and faster. I have sharp edges and sensitive spots. So I officially apologize if I get irrationally upset over something that seems trivial to you. Something about houses or babies or drugs or money or being cared for. I am never going to stop being angry.

Dear 16-year-old me:

Take a deep breath. Get comfortable. I've got some things to tell you. And some of the things are going to take longer to process than to read. Take your time here.

It's going to get better. This I promise you. And not just the kind of better where the bad things go away or get bearable or break you until a numbness settles over you like a cloak of apathy. No. You can't even imagine how much better things will get. You'll have moments where you just stop and bask for a moment in the wonder of feeling safe, happy, loved, and content. It's going to be wonderful.

But first, it's going to get worse. I won't give you specifics. I don't want fear and dread to ruin the moments in between. But it is going to get worse. This I also promise you. And there will be days you think you cannot survive. You will become a robot that goes through each day hoping for a car accident or deadly illness or something that will make the pain go away. You will shrink inside yourself as if huddling against a cruel wind. You will never be the same again. And again. And again.

But it will get better.

Let the promise of better days carry you through the ones you know you can't survive.

Let me give you some advice now:

Don't be afraid to question everything you believe. Either your beliefs will be tempered by the process or your mind and heart will be opened in beautiful ways. Always question.

Don't be afraid to make mistakes. Sometimes you have to make the wrong choice or love the wrong person to learn. You aren't going to ruin your life as long as you let the bad choices teach you and not break you. It's all going to be okay in the end, I know this. I hope you do too.

Anything else I would tell you could be found on the internet or through experience or they would be words that would never, never comfort you. How to make the perfect cupcakes and how to heal a broken heart and how to survive being the girl no one ever wants to date.

You are strong. You are beautiful. And in the next 10 years, you'll learn to believe it too. From someone that knows even your most embarrassing, horrible, and weak moments: I am so proud of you.

Monday, November 05, 2012

He is real.

But he is real.

He is unexpected reactions and opinions and actions.
That silence and burst of laughter at my antics.
He is arms around me when I am cold or sad or happy or lonely.
That silly man crawling up my stairs and singing horrible songs and dancing and getting excited like a toddler and getting distracted and randomly calling me beautiful.
And he, like, makes things better when I was sure I didn't need anyone to make things better.

And I was a tower of strength who resolutely didn't need anyone. An isolated tower of strength. And then he held me when I cried instead of calling me ridiculous or looking awkward or making me feel this [] small.

And, like, I didn't know I had a "kiss me" face until I met him and he knows exactly what that face looks like and sometimes he's silly and comes this [] close and doesn't kiss me and it makes me laugh.

Sometimes I forget for hours at a time that I'm supposed to be trying to be easy to get along with and fun to be around because I'm just comfortable with him.

And he is real.

He is the heavy sound of breathing and the rise and fall of his chest in the night.
That hand that fits so perfectly with mine and the way it feels when his those hands are in my hair and on my face. . .

He is a new best friend. I can tell him anything. I can ask him anything. Even when I don't really want to and my hands start to shake with the nervousness of it and my face starts twitching and there I am crying at the other end of the couch like someone just punched me, stuttering and snotting and he listens like I'm actually composed and articulate. He's like that.

He is laughter and engaging conversation and a partner in adventures and comfortable quiet moments and whispers in the dark.

Sometimes I worry about imaginary futures and stress about things 15 steps ahead of time and plan possible reactions to 75 situations and wall off parts of myself so I can survive a cataclysm.

But he is real.