It’s been a hell of a year. Pretty much twelve months of confusion, the truth being deliberately obfuscated so that I would not understand my own reality. I don’t know why I stayed in it, except to say that if things had gone differently, I might have gotten everything I have ever wanted. In fact, I did not, but maybe it was just meant to teach me something.
I am beginning to feel human again, with flashes of insight and energy that make me throw myself back into life for a bit, and then step back afraid again. I only hope that the periods of time when I can engage grow longer, and my pain diminishes. Perhaps until one day when I don’t need to crawl under my desk or bed and hug myself and moan about the losses I’ve experienced, in my life and inside my own body.
I’m focusing when I am able on a new job, in a new company, where there is so much promise and calm, even in chaos I feel no need to hide away from what people think and know.
I am focusing on writing, taking my second class in a row back at UCLA, and enjoying the creative output. It is something I consistently dread, and then love every week, the process of churning out an idea or a story, and the feedback has given me incredible optimism.
I am focusing on my body again, almost nothing feels better than my exhausted muscles after a great workout. Almost nothing feels better than waking up without a hangover, not needing to numb myself every night of the week anymore.
I am focusing on moving my life forward. I try not to dwell, or mourn, but a little seeps in every day, and I can really only hope that it will be less tomorrow, or maybe just soon.
I want to move on and realize that no matter what happened or what the outcome was, I truly did my best to love someone with all of me. For what I could control or manage, I did give my heart and soul, and for that I have to feel progress.
I am moving forward, with a heart that is starting to fill again, with a body and womb that is starting to heal.