I was going through my old journal and found this gem from November.
1) Hold me
Hold me like safety
Hold me like love
Hold me like he can’t find me here
2) Don’t you dare fucking touch me
Sometimes you’ll want to hold me and it will make me want to scream
Sometimes I can’t tell your caress from his
even though I try
even though I know better
It will usually be during sex
You’ll usually love me
3) Don’t say anything when I start crying
I will start crying
It will feel nice to know that at least I wasn’t silent this time
4) Remind me how long it’s been
5) Remind me that it takes 7 years to replace my skin
His touch is still here someplace
6) Pass me tissues when the crying gets louder
7) Don’t fight me when I say I want to hurt myself
8) Don’t let me hurt myself
9) Ask if I want to make out
It will probably be bad
It will definitely be sad
I will probably say yes.
The last year was something else.
A year ago I was turning everything I touched to tears. I was breaking at every turn and trying to keep track of all the pieces.
I spent months paralyzed in my own darkness.
Until I started to move again.
I watch a lot of HGTV when I’m home, and I’m developing a pretty hardcore passion for watching renovations.
Sometimes I think that’s what recovery looks like. A renovation.
First you have to realize that something needs to change. Then there’s a lot of demolition and destruction and everything has to get so much worse before you can start to rebuild it. Then you rebuild it.
Then, bit by bit, room by room, you get to reclaim it.
Last year was mostly destruction and demolition. It meant tearing everything down and exposing all of the painful places underneath.
This year meant getting to start to rebuild. I got to rebuild parts of myself that I hadn’t seen in a long time. I got to be sparkly and sexy and fierce again.
But the thing about renovations is that the goal isn’t to get back to where you were before. It’s about taking that space and building something better.
I’m building myself into something better.
I’m building myself into something amazing.
And I think I’m starting to reclaim it.
And that’s scary sometimes.
But it’s also breathtaking and magical and beautiful.
I am sparkly and sexy and fierce and I’m going to own that in so many exciting ways.
2014 is about reclaiming all of this life. The darkness and the light. The tears and the smiles. The love and the loss. And all of the sparkle and the shine.
It’s been a long road and it’s not over and there’s still dark to come but I think there’s also so much wonderful light and I’m so excited to show everyone what I’ve been building.
Sometimes I still think about you.
And it’s not that I still think about you, not anymore.
But there are moments.
I think about you when I think about theater and I think about you when I think about God and I think about you when I think about secrets and I think about you when I’m thinking about how I don’t want you like that anymore but I might still need you like a dictionary needs guide words.
Someone to remind me where I am.
I think about what it meant to have someone who knew everything
Who wandered through all the dark parts and never got scared.
I think about that first time, freaking out on the floor.
I think about having six hour conversations on the meaning of “kosher”.
I think about taking relationships on “test drives”.
I think about hiding underneath the table in the booth.
I think about the pain we wore on our skin and how you were the only one who’s asked what to do with it instead of just tiptoeing around like there’s a land mine there somewhere.
And sometimes you found land mines and you only questioned it for a second when I asked you to kiss me anyway.
You were never afraid of the dark.
Sometimes I miss you.
I miss you once in a while when I’m sober and once in a shorter while when I’m drunk and I don’t really want you but sometimes I still imagine that we end up in Seattle or Vancouver and have kids names Skye or Sage or any of the other names we picked out that day you told me I shouldn’t have kids if I kept comparing fetuses to tumors.
Sometimes I remember what it felt like to feel that wanted.
And I don’t look for people that remind me of you.
But I would give anything for someone who reminded me of how you felt.
How you made me feel.
I would give anything for someone who felt so much like home.
And I don’t know if you see this and I kind of hope that you don’t.
Because it really doesn’t mean anything but it’s just things I think sometimes when I miss my best friend.
The other day my mom pointed out that my astrological chart is really heavy in my fourth house- which is about home. And I realized how much of my life made sense in that light.
It’s why I get attached to apartments I’ve been in for like three months.
It’s why I moved a bed frame across the world and back.
It’s why I feel like I might be from everywhere I’ve ever lived.
Because sometimes home is a place and sometimes home is many places. And sometimes home is a person.
It’s why I’m clingy.
It’s why I can be friends with someone for a few months and they can know more about me than people I’ve known for years.
It’s why I want to stay friends with exes.
It’s why I will always prefer to be left over leaving.
But sometimes home needs to just be my body and I’m working so hard to reclaim that from a world that told me a body that looked like mine could never be a home, or the darker parts of me that kept making it inhabitable, or people who wanted to move in whether I wanted them to or not.
But it’s okay. Because maybe I’m not always the best home for myself, but I have so many others.
Because home is sitting down in a warm shower.
Home is waking up next to someone I love, romantically or platonically.
Home is a canopy bed with a stupidly soft mattress.
Home is a airport when I’m travelling alone.
Home is a best friend’s tear-stained body pillow.
Home is a whisper in the dark.
Home is a secret.
Home is a series of houses and apartments that have sheltered me.
Home is a view of the ocean from a train window.
Home is a couple of cities.
Home is a set of mistakes I will never regret.
Home is a candle on the patio.
Home is a smiley kiss.
And no one can ever take them away from me.
Writers are forgetful,
but they remember everything.
They forget appointments and anniversaries,
but remember what you wore,
how you smelled,
on your first date…
They remember every story you’ve ever told them -
but forget what you’ve just said.
They don’t remember to water the plants
or take out the trash,
but they don’t forget how
to make you laugh.
Writers are forgetful
the important things.