It’s So Hard to Say Good-Byeve

An Insecure Retrospective

It’s finally here.

I am a huge fan of HBO’s Insecure and have been thinking about this moment for over a year. Waiting for this moment for weeks. The first episode of the last season of Issa Rae’s 11-time Emmy nominated series airs tonight. I am excited to see a new episode of the show, but I know I’m gonna cry through the season watching all these beautiful storylines come to a close. It’s definitely bittersweet. 

To celebrate and to make the most of this last season, I want to write out what my predictions are. The show has covered a LOT of ground in four seasons. Black male sexual fluidity in the character of Jared. Black male depression through season one Lawrence. Issa as the forever struggle friend who doesn’t get herself together until the end of season three. Open relationships. (Dro. … Chile!) Mental health and all the ways we manage and mismanage it through the characters of Nathan and Molly. Issa, Lawrence, and Molly all glowing up in their careers. Derek and Tiffany (and, now, Lawrence and Condola) becoming parents. And, most importantly, how all these momentous late 20s and early 30s life changes disrupt your relationships. There’s so much to unpack and I am sure that I will be talking about and re-watching this show for YEARS. 

The writers of Insecure have been excellent at giving us hints at what’s to come for the entire series. In preparation for tonight’s premiere, I spent the last week re-watching the series, and based on some semi-educated guesses, this is what I think is going to happen.

Somebody’s Gonna Die

These characters have gone through everything you go through in your 20s and 30s except dealing with the death of a loved one, specifically the death of a parent. By your early 30s, many, many people lose a parent. Or, they know someone who has. It’s pretty surprising that none of the main characters have experienced that loss yet. In season four episode 9, Issa calls her brother, Ahmal, for advice and the first thing out of his mouth is, “Stanley, dead?” While there’s no guarantee that their mom’s boyfriend Stanley will actually die, I think somebody’s mom or dad will. 

Molly Finally Gets Real

We saw the moment in season four episode 7 when Molly calls Dr. Rhonda from the beach in Mexico. While she does later have a session in which Dr. Rhonda poses the question, “Do you want to be right or do you want to be in relationships?” Molly chose the former over the latter and all but ended her friendship with Issa in episode 9. Then, in episode 10 we see Andrew breaking up with her and Molly being completely caught off guard when he asks, “What are you really fighting for?” It’s fascinating how easy it was for Molly to label Issa as selfish, but she can’t see the same career-obsessed selfishness in herself. All that said, if the natural hair Molly is rockin’ in the trailers is any indicator (after SERV.ING. US. with these wigs. For years!), I expect to see Molly go through some massive changes in this final season. 

Molly Ends Up with Taurean (Yes! More on Molly!)

Since Molly transitioned to her current law firm in season 3, her coworker,Taurean has been a persistent presence due to his dominant performance in the office. On their brunch date in episode 9, Issa mentions in passing that Taurean came up on her Instagram. I’ve long thought that Taurean would make the best match for Molly. He works hard and is just as driven as Molly is, but we also know from Issa’s mention of him on IG that he knows how to play hard too. Molly lacks that skill. And, let’s not forget the moment in season three when Taurean switched cases instead of co-leading with Molly. Taurean is about his business, but business isn’t all there is to him. Molly doesn’t have that quality, but Taurean could be the one to teach her. And, maybe, it could turn into something more.

Lawrence is Gonna Be a Good Dad

To everyone’s great sadness, it is confirmed that Lawrence and Condola will be co-parenting a child together. There’s just no getting around it. (But, honestly? How sway?!? Lawrence screwed everything walking for two seasons and got chlamydia doing it, but now he has weak-ass pull out game? Condola is the most put-together of put-together people so much so that she organizes everything for everyone else. … But, she’s not on any form of birth control? Seriously?!?!? Make it make sense.) In season four episode 4, we see Kelli say, “Look at Lawrence over there. Looking like a provider.” Now, with his new job in San Francisco he has the ability to do that. Is this the way that any of us wanted Lawrence to finally step up? Of course not. Is he gonna do it though? Yep. Issa said it herself. Lawrence isn’t a sometime-y dude. [shrug] I guess dad jokes are going to be called Lawrences now.

Issa is Team Nanceford

I want to state for the record right now that as much as I love the pure romance that is Issa and Lawrence, I hope Issa ends up with Nathan. Nathan is the only person that believed in Issa when she didn’t believe in herself. He’s the only person that is honest and vulnerable with her without the relationship having to break first. Nathan’s the only person that not only hears and sees Issa rapping to herself, he amps her up and raps with her. And, probably, most importantly, he’s the only person that she didn’t have to build up. 

Issa had to build Lawrence while he was depressed and unemployed for 2 years in their Dunes apartment. She cheered Molly on in her relentless quest for partner at her various law firms. She helped Daniel meet Spyder at the club so maybe he could finally get his big break as a music producer. Issa, for years, didn’t know how to fix her own life, but she was there for everyone else’s. But, the moment she cleaned up her life, who was there? Nathan. And,he was fully supportive of her from day one. On top of that, Nathan is the only person Issa has gotten to be her best, post-We-Got-Y’all self with. It took Issa so long to get to healthy and happy. I want her to stay there, and I believe Nathan is the best (read: “healthiest”) person for the job.

Or Issa is Solo Dolo

Alternatively, if Issa ends up 100% single but a bomb-ass entrepreneur, I will be down with that too. We learned at the end of season three (and in episodes 6 and 9 of season four) that even when it gets rocky, Issa can make it on her own. I’d be equally happy to see her walk into the LA sunset standing completely on her own two feet.

I have other theories that are less well thought out:

• Maybe Molly will sing the “You’re My Best Friend” song back to Issa. 
• Maybe Ahmal and Kelli will actually get along for 10 minutes. 
• Maybe Tiffany was a surrogate and Simone is actually Kelli’s daughter. 

If you’re wondering, no I didn’t forget about the biggest plot point which is whether or not Issa and Molly will heal their friendship. But, I read an article once where Prentice Penny (Insecure’s showrunner) defined the love story of the show as being Issa and Molly’s friendship. I don’t know how they’ll work it out, but I know that they will. 

Still, I’m sad to see them go. Issa Dee is my friend in my head. (She’s me but better to be honest.) I miss her and the whole crew already. And, I am so thankful and proud of Issa Rae for creating these characters, this show, this world for the culture. Here’s to the end of a beautiful ride.

Reflecting on Why We Can’t Wait on This Day of Remembrance

Last year I reread Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s Why We Can’t Wait. As I was doing so, I remember talking about it with one of my friends who innocently remarked that she didn’t know that Dr. King had written a book, had written any books. I was taken aback and I remember being disappointed by this ignorance. We really have reduced Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. down to a single speech on a single day. But, I am not better. It took me weeks of being unsettled by my friend’s comment to remember that there was a point at which I hadn’t known about Dr. King’s writings either. I had to be taught. I had to learn.

I was introduced to Why We Can’t Wait in my African American studies class in college. I don’t think I read through all of it then. (I couldn’t tell you a single reading assignment I completed in full in college. How did I graduate?) I know from my notes that I started rereading it somewhere in the last five years, but I did not complete it until last July. As I write now, I’ve decided that no book is worth reading that is not worth reading more than once. Upon finally completing this book in my thirties, I was amused by the youthful awe in my margin notes from previous reads. I adored Dr. King’s ability to craft such beautiful extended metaphors. And, I was thrilled to find that in the middle of the book is one of my favorite essays, “Letter from a Birmingham Jail.” One of my high school teachers had used that letter to teach us literary devices. I remember highlighting the essay with glee and being genuinely enamored at learning what anaphora was and seeing it employed for such a noble cause as describing the urgency of the Civil Rights movement by none other than Dr. King himself.

Wistful admiration aside, my views on Dr. King’s writings have sobered now that I am an adult. Most notably, I can’t get past how truly radical it is to lead a nation-wide, nonviolent movement. Dr. King writes, “Some  of those who carried penknives … had them not because they wanted to use them against the police or other attackers, but because they wanted to defend themselves against [Commissioner Eugene “Bull”] Connor’s dogs. We proved to them that we needed no weapons – not so much as a toothpick. We proved that we possessed the most formidable weapon of all – the conviction that we were right.” I bristled reading that. I mean, it’s almost so naive that it’s absurd. Actively choosing not to fight back against an aggressor isn’t just radical. It’s practically superhuman. But, as you continue reading and considering the idea, the rationale becomes clear. The neutral response to the violent and inhumane racism of the American south in the 1960s – of America in the 60s – placed a spotlight on how grotesque it really was. The simplicity of it is genius. I don’t think I have that kind of courage.

Still, I have to highlight one of the examples that Dr. King uses to set up the argument for why nonviolence is his methodology for bringing about change. Among other historical examples, Dr. King notes, “American history had taught [the Negro] that nonviolence in the form of boycotts and protests had confounded the British monarchy and laid the basis for freeing the colonies from unjust domination.” This just doesn’t hold water. We all know that the Boston Tea Party would eventually escalate into the American Revolutionary war. As in WAR. With death. And guns. And violence. I’m trivializing, but it’s funny how all of us, regardless of age or education or where we are in the history of our own lives or in the history of … history … cherry pick the version of the truth that best suits us at the time. I hope I don’t forget this fact.

Finally, I must, must, must say that I was awestruck by the unassuming significance of two characters in the book. The first character is, of course, Dr. King’s wife, Coretta. Coretta did not make the trip to Birmingham because she was pregnant at the time. However, being housebound and pregnant did not stop her agency. When she found out that Dr. King was being held in solitary confinement, she called the president – yes, President John F. Kennedy – and that phone call led to a couple other calls that got Dr. King moved to better conditions. I find that story so powerful. It’s mentioned unceremoniously, but it is obviously no small act. Coretta Scott King called the president of the United States and got her husband moved. That is powerful. I loved learning that she remembered that her network included the most influential man in the world (other than, perhaps, her husband), and she used the power of that connection without hesitation. That is beyond amazing.

The second character is more unexpected. As Dr. King recounts how the Birmingham plan unfolded, he revealed that the actor Harry Belafonte gathered his network to pool funds and donate to the movement not once but twice. We don’t expect celebrities, at any level, to take vested interest in our lives as everyday Americans. We don’t expect them to be thoughtful or intelligent or that they’ll care about promoting a cause other than their own career. But, Harry Belafonte organized direct support for the movement that provided critical financial aid. I understand that black people across America, regardless of status, were more on equal footing than we are now. Segregation and racist policies drew their lines around black skin in the same way most black people. But, I still find Belafonte’s organizing to be its own form of courage. It is one thing to stand up and say, “I can and will help you to do this.” It is another thing to mobilize others to do the same. Artists are, and should be, multi-faceted.

As I mentioned before, I think it’s important to read books more than once. And, more importantly to this discussion and to this year’s holiday, it’s important to be a student of history. It’s important to learn details and context of these great stories lest they be lost in the sands of time or misconstrued.

Arrested Development

Hey there, blog. Hey, Internet.

Returning to write this blog has been … I’ve been procrastinating.

To get started, I did the same thing that I do when I am about to write a new journal entry. I read a bunch of my old stuff first. And, maybe, that’s fancy procrastinating? I don’t know? All I know is that – and, I am sorry to report this – I have not changed.

I talked about it and talked about it and talked about it. Nothing. No change.

Thank goodness for friends though. I was going through my usual song and dance of, “How do I get past this? Why aren’t I past this?!?” with a friend of mine a couple weeks ago. She listened to me. She was fair. She was loving and incredibly considerate of all my protests and frustrations. Then she calmly told me the truth.

“Well. You know. Maybe it’s time to … find a love of your own.”

And the cat finally popped its adorable little head out of the bag.

That’s it, folks. That’s the thing I haven’t been saying for three damn years. Despite quite a few other unfortunate events, this one thing is the reason why, “Twenty-seventeen almost killed me!” as I have often said to my loved ones in my life offline.

I got my heart broken. That’s it.

Everyone goes through heartbreak at some point or another, and my number had finally come up. In 2017, my heart shattered, and I’ve spent three plus years not getting over it.

I see a therapist pretty regularly, and recently even she had said the same. “This loss really represented a lot for you. … I don’t know how to get you past this.”

My therapist does not know how to get me past this because she can’t. That’s not her job.

“It’s gotta come from you,” my very sweet friend had continued. And then she held the space. And I, begrudgingly, held the space too and scribbled the obvious and common sense truth onto a pad of paper to process later.

“It’s gotta come from you.” – Understanding Friend, August 2020.

[sigh]

So, let’s talk for a moment about getting stuck. Or, more accurately, staying stuck. Which is the thing I’ve been doing.

Which is why I’m writing this on the internet and being open for once and not talking in abstractions. (Although I do love talking in abstractions. I’ve always found it more intelligent, interesting, and effective to be able to discuss abstract ideas. However, what I’m finding now is that being idealistic or abstract allows you to miss the life happening in front of you. It’s a mask. It allows the illusion of being grounded in reality – “Because I can see, like, the real truth, man.” – when in actuality you are not. That has been the case for me anyway. I’m starting to see all of this as a tangent to or an extension of Jordan Peterson’s “Clean Your Room” ethos. But, I digress.)

I didn’t get stuck. I stayed stuck.

Recently, I saw someone share a New York Times article on resilience. I learned about resilience, and about my profound lack of it, after this heartbreak. For that reason, the article caught my eye. As defined by the author, “Resilience is the ability to recover from difficult experiences and setbacks, to adapt, move forward and sometimes even experience growth.” More exciting than the definition of resilience though is a hallmark is of its application. It’s a learnable trait. You actually learn resilience by doing it and by having unshakable social support. And, the more you practice resilience and lean in to your support system, the more of it you’ll have.

So, if you’ve been following along:

Got my heart broken.

Discovered the concept of resilience.

Realized I had no resilience at all.

Learned nothing. Did nothing. Changed nothing.

All right, that’s an exaggeration. Time, of course, has transformed things in the way that only time can. And, I’ve taken my life through some pretty good changes on my own. I am more stable mentally, emotionally and even financially than I was three years ago. But, for me to have an honest conversation with my friend three years later, get off the phone with her, and then proceed to still be crying over this heartbreak every other day for weeks? Something ain’t healed. Maybe nothing is.

Here again the article is helpful.
“‘Many, many resilient people learn to carefully accept what they can’t change about a situation and then ask themselves what they can actually change,’ Dr. Southwick said. Conversely, banging your head against the wall and fretting endlessly about not being able to change things has the opposite effect, lessening your ability to cope.”

And that, dear friends, is what has kept me stuck. While I have lived without this love for more than three years now, I have never been willing to accept that the romance I wanted to have with the man I wanted to love will never come to pass. And, honestly, even if I were able to reconnect with this man, he long ago gave up on loving me. That’s the thing I can’t accept. That is the unchanging truth on which I have been relentlessly banging my head. That’s the block to my resilience and my growth.

I want to wrap this up in some pretty bow. And, I suppose, I could. I could write some pithy, pseudo-wise, marginally hopeful denouement. But, dear reader, we both know that’s not the point. I could move on and move on and move on and never actually get better. I could live my whole life without ever healing the thing that makes me cry.

Or, I could actually, finally fix things. Fix me.

I’m terrified.

Iterations

Hey there, Internet.

I’ve missed two months here and one would imagine, maybe even expect, that my absence would mean I was off living my big, beautiful life. Disciplining myself, letting go of trauma addiction, getting unstuck from the pain of my past, creating the hope that I’ve been talking about here for months … right?

Hahahahahahahahaha! I definitely was not doing that.

I actually have been having meltdowns and awakenings right and left for, like, 2 months. Why? Because that’s the way anxiety works, friends. If your life is telling you to fix it but you don’t do any fixing, you stay stuck and you go crazy. (Here’s some context on that.) *sigh*

Honestly, that’s all there is to say. Everything else is a repeat. Enough. #LastDahria

Let There Be

Yesterday marks two years since what I think of as the “inciting incident” of my life as I used to know it beginning to unravel. I was going to get into the specifics of that, but there’s really no need. I’ve kind of already talked about this, and re-living pain is a choice I don’t have to keep making. 

Still, even with knowing how to move on in theory, at the beginning of this year, I found myself getting all in my feels on Instagram. In the spirit of new year’s resolutions and themes, a user I follow asked what her followers’ “word for the year” was. I honestly had to go back to delete my response because, well, this is what I wrote:

F O R G E T. Forget I was ever sad. Forget I was ever lonely. Forget I was ever insecure. Forget I was ever depressed. Forget I was ever heartbroken. Forget I was ever anxious. Forget I ever failed. Forget about not believing in my worth. Forget about being too tired to push for my goals. I want so much to change my brain so that I can change my life. I want to forget.

Geez. Attention-seeking trauma addict much?

 

Now, to my credit I had just watched this Jim Kwik video, and he mentions forgetting as part of the process of learning. My intentions were in the right place!

But, that comment was too much.

Like, who am I to tell people to read everything Brene Brown has ever written when:

1. I’m out here sharing my shame story with THE WORLD. So foolish! (That is not advised.)
2. I haven’t actually read everything Brene Brown has ever written. Because sometimes I’m just … full of shit. Sigh. Moving along.

I’m in a phase of my life where moving forward seems to come with great pain. Because I stress and get down on myself easily, many of my loved ones have had to encourage me to be vigilant about making my thoughts more positive. Adding to this encouragement, I recently Audibled – is that a word yet? Can we go ahead and add it to the Oxford English dictionary? Do enough of us Audible to make that happen? (See what I did there?) – Change or Die by Alan Deutschman, and he noted that “acting as if,” or “faking it to you make it,” does actually help people make lasting change. (This is an oversimplification of the themes of the book, by the way. I recommend a full read for proper context. I also highly recommend Carol Dweck’s new classic, Mindset. That one is watershed.) In the past, I never believed in the idea of “faking it ‘til you make it” because the idealist in me couldn’t get past the concept of change being founded on a lie. But, I think I get it now. “Fake it till you make it” is not a lie. It’s hope in action. It’s creating a vision and then working to make that vision reality. Besides, plenty of other humans have “faked” it and “made” it and changed their lives. I can do that too.

So my new word is

L I G H T

There is a light-hearted version of me that is waiting for me to get over myself and live on. I don’t have to keep accepting the label of “cerebral.” I don’t have to keep being heavy and weighed down by regret and the choices I didn’t make or the people I miss. I believe in my light. I can choose to believe in it. And I can trust that if I keep acting as if being the woman I want to be and living the life that I want to have is effortless and easy and beautiful, then one day it really will be.

The War of Letting Go

Just over two years ago – It was December 19th – I took a screenshot of a gif on a Facebook status. The gif rotated through life lessons, the idea being that whatever lesson you see when you take the screenshot is what you would manifest for the following year. Here’s what I got:

I gotta say, I may or may not believe in god, but I damn sure believe in the internet. The year after I took that screenshot really did teach me the art of letting go. And it didn’t do it the nice way either. I got my ass kicked almost every single month in 2017. For too long now that has been my story. “Last year was really tough for me.” “Last year was the hardest year of my life.” I told everyone about it at every opportunity.

As I write now, I am reminded that you are not supposed to glamourize pain. But I do. I’m doing it right now! I glorify pain so much that it’s become an everyday practice. I glorify pain so much that last week I was openly crying on my way to get lunch. Like, ugly crying. In public. On purpose.

I am not saying that the things I’ve struggled with aren’t real. They are. What I am saying is that even I’m getting sick of my drama. I mean, who does this? Who stays this sad for this long? Here’s another internet gem I came across this year.

Trauma isn’t sexy or good for you in any kind of way, and yet I’m addicted to it. I want to heal … in theory. But actually healing is really damned hard. It takes a lot of work. And, ya know, like the tweet says, I don’t know who I am without some level of dysfunction.

And that follow up tweet? That’s a bitter ass pill to swallow. I think part of the reason I kept (keep?) telling my sob story is because I want people to feel sad for me. I often still feel sad for myself. Everyone in my life has told me I have to move on from my trauma and live, but I’ve been beside myself like, “HOW, SWAY?! How am I supposed to do that? Don’t you know what happened to me?!”

Emotionally tough people tell more fragile people like myself to let go and move on like it’s easy. It’s not. I feel like I am nothing. How am I supposed to let go of the most beautiful thing I’ve ever known? It’s a fight to breathe and look forward and make sense out of a world that doesn’t add up anymore. I am still seething with rage and confusion.

 

But, let me pull up. I’m falling down a pretty dark hole here.

 

My 2018 goals of “letting go of unforgiveness and “cultivating discipline” manifested themselves as one thing: meditation. The good news is that, as mentioned in a previous post, I meditate every day now. Here is a screenshot of my stats after 53 weeks of using the ever popular Headspace app.

I am extremely proud of those numbers. (A four month plus run streak? Nearly a session a day in roughly a year’s time? Damn.) I also l know that meditation alone is not enough to heal pain and build a life I’m excited about.

Even after two years, I still regularly want to scream and cry and break. Sometimes I do. But, now that I know I can be consistent on a goal that matters to me, I’ve gotta step my game up.

Next year I want to focus on one habit that will hopefully push me toward my other goals: waking up only once.

Normally I roll over and snooze my alarm, sometimes going back to sleep for hours. It’s a huge time waster. I’m playing around with ways to make myself stay up after I get up. I’ve tried making my bed so I don’t get back in it as well as doing yoga. But so far the most effective ways to stay awake have been creative writing and dancing. I guess that makes sense for me though. I have always loved writing and dancing. Why wouldn’t I want to wake up and do that every day?

I don’t have any creative writing to share right now, but here’s the jam that’s been getting me up and keeping me motivated this past week. It’s a funk classic from A Taste of Honey. I hope you love it.

(If you don’t see a preview video, just tap the link.)

Here’s to more and better in 2019!

Full

It wasn’t until I was halfway to Burger King’s second drive through window that I realized I had ordered a Veggie Burger with no onions and onion rings on the side. The cashier gave me half of an almost side-eye as she took my debit card at the window, but then she completed her job politely, asking me about dipping sauces and offering me a straw to go with my sweet tea.

I sipped my tea at a stop light on the way back home; it did not taste of the usual aspartame. I shrugged and took another sip before the light changed.

It wasn’t until I was 61% through my veggie burger and had already eaten numerous bites of raw, white onions that I realized I was also eating mayo despite the fact that my receipt explicitly stated there was to be “NO mayo” on my veggie burger. (But, please, do add cheese.)

And that’s the story about how everyone working the lunch shift at my local Burger King called my bluff today. I finished my lunch without contest.

(Untitled)

She looked into my eyes.

And I looked into hers.

The desperation on her face shimmered like a deep matte bronzer.

Tears walked calmly down her cheekbones to her chin when they could no longer be held by her lashes.

Her red anxiety stared at me as she clasped her hands in prayer, pleading.

“I know I’m not who you wanted. And I know you are scared. But would you please stay? Could you stay and love me? It’s all going to work out. I love you. I believe in you. You are brilliant. And I believe in us. I believe that one day we won’t be standing here talking to each other with tears in our eyes.

But, please. Please stay and love me. Would you please hold on?”

So, I did.

No Perfect Tens

Hey there, blog. It’s September. (Say that you remember.)

A little over a year ago I was writing in my very cool planner that I love, and I had asked myself a question:

How do you do 10 years’ worth of growing in 10 months?

At the time I was eager to find the answer to that question, and I genuinely believed that making 10 years’ worth of progress in 10 months was an actual possibility. Spoiler alert: It’s not. Ten years’ worth of growth takes. ten. years.

Now, I do believe you may be able to release a decade of baggage in about a year’s time. That’s more realistic. I think cutting away the things that hold you back can be done relatively quickly. It’s not necessarily easy though.

To use an example and put it in perspective – and to hopefully be a little less vague? maybe? – I’ve re-read my first blog post of this year many times. More than necessary.  Every time I do so, I give myself the same critique. “Really, Dahria?” ‘Letting Go of Unforgiveness’? Really?! Why do you have to find the most roundabout way possible to say ‘forgiving myself’? You are the absolute most.” That’s not the meanest thing a person could say to themselves, but it’s not exactly the nicest thing either.

In re-reading that post (and judging myself over and over and over …), I seemed to have forgotten that letting go was the whole point. Like, yeah. Maybe I wrote it in a weird way. But letting go of unforgiveness, letting go of the need to keep punishing myself for my mistakes, has to happen before forgiveness can happen. In her book Rising Strong, Brene Brown explains this concept more eloquently. She writes that she was listening to her pastor friend Joe speak when he said,

“In order for forgiveness to happen, something has to die.”

(Is that not brilliant? Listen, if you are unfamiliar with Brene Brown’s work, you need to catch up. Quick. Start here and then consume everything else. You’ll thank me later.)

Starving off my attachment to the shame and pain of my past mistakes takes a lot of practice. And practice takes time. It just does. [shrug] It may even take a few extra words too.

So, we’re back to the original point. Real growth is slooooow, my friend. (My unofficial internet cousin Evelyn has a very funny birthday video that briefly discusses this subject.) But, as I write these words now, I’m proud to say that in the year since I posed the original question and the eight months since my resolution, I can actually see myself softening and learning to be kind to myself. Even when letting go has been hard, hard, hard and oh so painful, I’ve made the effort. I wonder what the next few months will bring.

Serum

I watched a whole documentary about Jean Michel Basquiat and all I could think about at the end was his clear skin.
Clear fucking skin.

I wonder about real vs facade.
I couldn’t tell you the last time I was real.
I don’t remember.
I mean, the only true thing is movement, right?
So, maybe the last time I was real was the last time I found myself melting into the floor.
Or maybe it was the moment before.
When my knees buckled and my mind smiled and gave in to gravity. It welcomed the ground rushing up to meet my knees, my thighs, my arms, my face.
Isn’t this romantic?
No, I don’t remember the last time I was real.
Once upon a time, my mind split in half and every tear I cried after that moment was a perfectly round, little salt lie.
Except for the tears that came from the hole in my mind. Those tears seeped from my cracked skull and stained the sky rust and white and grey and black and …
Isn’t this beautiful?
I don’t remember the last time I was real.
I imagine being real to be like having perfectly clear skin.
Nothing to change. Nothing to hide.
Mischief and honesty laid bare right in front of you.
Seems too good to be true.