say something

The most difficult part of trauma and depression is how unpredictable it is.

I had an entire day of activities planned and I woke up sobbing. 

It was the kind of crying where I didn't even feel like I was the one crying. 

But rather the crying had a life of its own and was having me. 

And I had no choice but to let it consume me.

I've been sad before. 

But there's always been a reason, a simple cause and effect, and I've understood what I was feeling and why. 

I've known it was coming and could prepare and adjust accordingly. 

What's happening to me now is so erratic and inconsistent, it frightens me. 

I cancelled my brunch plans and am now laying down with a blanket and a book and my cat watching the leaves dance outside the window. 

I know why I'm sad, at least partially the cause, but I'm at a loss as to why it's effecting me so intensely in this moment. 

So there's no way to prevent it or even anticipate it. 

Because it has a life of its own. 

That's the difference. 

Sadness can be controlled and understood. 

Depression breathes its own chaos without any effort on your part. 

And I fucking hate it. 

I don't currently have a solution except to give in when it gets like this.

Cancelling my plans, though it wasn't what I wanted, did have a calming effect, so I guess the cancellation was what the depression wanted. 

I feel almost like I could name it, my depression.

And it would be a him, because it feels so very unfamiliar to me another female would never cause me such consuming confusion. 

And then to cause even more lack of understanding, I feel angry.

Angry for feeling so profoundly unhappy.

So I feel unmotivated and have only the energy to lay on this couch and then some other part of me resents me for giving in. 

Like I've failed and lost some war and while the depressed part of me is grateful to only lay here the angry part of me shakes its head in disgust and wonders why I don't get up and fucking do something. 

So I can't win. 

This war in my mind pulling me in conflicting directions. 

This self doubt and disgust and confusion. 

And all I want to do is sleep.

Sleep and dream of times where my mind was balanced, when I could wake up and have the day I'd planned instead of waking up blind from the amount of water pouring from my eyes. 

And I don't know what to do. 

I don't know which part of my mind I'm supposed to listen to. 

Who to give in to. 

And that only adds to the exhaustion of such confusion. 

No wonder people who are depressed are always so tired. 

We never get a break from ourself. 

Our contradictory, chaotic, inconsistent self.

Happy Sunday, indeed. 

In C Minor

I'm not really sure what put the idea in my head.

Maybe it was reading about music and what it does to the brain.

Maybe it was listening to so much Rachmaninoff.

But I suddenly decided what I want to do.

What I want to pour my energy into.

I'm going to learn to play Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto Number 2.

It's been my favorite since I first heard it in my twenties.

I've heard it live.

I've listened to it countless times.

I've always thought that if I was ever going to get married I'd walk down the aisle to my favorite part of the concerto where the music is dramatic and grand and really if you're going to parade in front of a room of loved ones and strangers in an insanely overpriced but fabulous gown I can't think of a more appropriate soundtrack than the intense drama of this piece.

I wrote a paper on the concerto in college because I was fascinated that it'd been written out of a mad depression because Rachmaninoff's previous work had been such a failure.

He locked himself away with his suffering and wrote this.

And it's incredible.  

The piece is entirely beyond my skill level. 

Laughably so.

It's the equivalent of me cooking all of Julia Child's recipes when I can barely make toast or sending a V10 on the bouldering wall when I poorly send a V1.

It's just really fucking hard.

Insanely, monumentally hard.

I don't even think I'm fully aware of the level of its difficulty.

Miraculously, (like it was meant to be or something) I actually found the sheet music free online the next morning.

I printed it off, all 37 pages.

Thirty. Seven. PAGES.

Do you know I don't even know what year it was the last time I taught myself how to play something new on the piano.

No, wait, I do.

It was 2008.

I was living in Rhode Island and it was because they paid me to play the piano so I had to learn the music for the show.

Since then I've only ever played piano music I'd already learned.

And now I was going to learn something new that was insanely difficult.

We already knew I was crazy. 

Ambitious maybe?

No, probably just fucking nuts.

The thing is, I was so excited I went home on my lunch break and spent the whole time playing through the first few pages. 

And when I got off work I sat down and started playing right away again.

And even just the few hours I played today my painfully slow tempo has increased. 

Minutely. But it's the teensiest bit faster.

That's the hardest part about trying to learn this. 

I already know what it should sound like and how fucking fast it needs to be.

Hell, I can sing it.

But I can't play it. 

Yet. 

I know it's gonna take me forever to learn this. 

Like weeks upon months upon I can't even imagine how long. 

And even once I finally do learn it it's not like I'm going to have the orchestra playing with me that makes the piece really great. 

But I don't even care. 

It feels incredible to have something to pour my energy into.

To have a goal for myself. 

To already see a minutia of growth on just the first day. 

And it even feels poetic.

Because just days after he took away his music, music that was bringing my mind peace, I found my own. 

I'm making my own music. 

And it's the calmest I've felt in a long time. 

I spent hours today working out just four pages, at a fraction of the tempo it needs to be, still not trusting the notes I was playing or the placement of my hands or even the fingering I was using. 

But I started. 

I started and I can play the opening chords of one of my favorite works of music.

And it took me thirty four years to realize I can love something desperately and revel in it entirely by myself. 

I guess sometimes losing the people you love really does make room for something else great.

And this time, the greatness would be in me.

Rachmaninoff's masterpiece brought him out of his depression. 

Maybe mastering it will bring me out of mine. 

fantasie impromptu

One of my girlfriends talks about herself as two very distinctive people: who she was before the trauma, and who she has become after.

For her, the differences are so great it's as though she really is a completely different person.

And I realize, on a smaller scale, that's how I'm feeling.

I have no desire to date.

I restarted my Tinder app but not because I really want to go on any dates but because I felt like it was what I should do.

Those fucking shoulds.

Amelie was on a date one night this week and I was at home listening to Chopin with my cat reading about amusia.

I had no desire to switch places with her.

I haven't had sex in two months.

If you'd have asked me what I'd be like going two months without sex earlier this year I'd have said I'd be one cranky bitch.

But I honestly haven't even noticed. 

It was only stumbling upon a particular conversation and realizing it's already half way through October that I even became aware of how long it's been.

The last time was him, which makes me feel like he has some power over me but I suppose it's my choice not to share my body with anyone else for awhile.

It's just a very un Reese thing to do.

She's apparently in hibernation.

Maybe she'll awaken in the winter? 

Or perhaps the spring?

The spring was such a sweet time of year this year. 

Two years in a row, actually....

What used to make me feel better isn't what I crave anymore. 

The introvert in me seems to be taking over. 

I've been listening to Beethoven and Chopin and Rachmanninoff and it's making me want to play the piano more.

So much of my identity has always been the people I surround myself with. 

And lately I've been wanting to surround myself with music and books and maybe one or two girlfriends and that's it. 

I feel strange. 

But fascinated. 

It changes you to lose someone that you love.

Especially when that someone is still very much alive.

Just no longer a part of your story.

Or even a part of the music you listen to.

You don't have that either.

You have nothing of them.

But your memories.

Hazy, confusing, but partially perfect and sometimes so very lovely memories. 

I can be a little fucked up

I'm in love with my therapist. 

She's kind of a ball buster. 

She told me she's being a little hard on me because she thinks it's what I want. 

And it's true. 

She said if she was being incredibly easy on me she'd say much more, I can see how you'd feel that way's.

I told her I don't want that at all. 

So she said, Ok then, stop judging yourself.

Apparently I'm too hard on myself. 

It's peculiar to have a stranger figure out so quickly things you weren't even aware you were doing.

I didn't want to tell you that I talked to him, I admitted.

Of course you talked to him, she replied too quickly. 

Then we just stared at each other.

That was kind of the moment I fell in love.

I don't know why it took a gun for me to finally seek out a therapist but it's really kind of wonderful.

Maybe if I'd started seeing a therapist after my first abusive relationship when I was 19 I wouldn't have begun dating a string of withholding, unavailable, manipulative, narcissists.

Maybe I'd be married with three kids.

HA.

But seriously. 

It's comforting to have someone in my life trained in what the fuck is going on with me. 

I told her about this vivid nightmare I had, and I never remember my dreams, and this one was in such detail.

And I thought it was so strange for it to suddenly all come up so vividly. 

And she said I'm right on schedule. 

Enough time has passed that the shock has dissipated and my mind has a little space, and is now trying to work it out. 

And here I thought I was just bats.

Everything is more complicated now and there are still very real parts of me that want to cling to things that remind me of my hopeful 20's.

Because I think that naive girl is still a part of me.

At least I really want her to be.  

Redemption, Reese, you want everyone to be redeemed.

And maybe they will.

Maybe they all will.

Wouldn't that be grand?

mermaids, i choose mermaids

There are tears stuck behind my eyes but they won't come out.

They remain so my eyes have this constant sadness, even when they're happy.

Sometimes when I take a deep breath it feels like I'm wearing a corset, because my lungs just stop and won't fill with any more air.

I was reading and listening to Chopin and all of a sudden a memory flashed in my mind.

Can I read to you? 

I was curled up beside him as his animated voice poured through the pages.

It was such a simple thing, really, and somehow, we'd never done anything like it before. 

It was the last hour before I had to leave to go to work and I remember being so exhausted because we hadn't slept a moment.

But also feeling so happy.  

So stupidly, profoundly happy that he wanted me there, that he had let me into his world, his books, his thoughts, his dreams.

I'd wanted to cry from such sheer joy.

And after I delighted blissfully in that moment there suddenly flashed a more recent one. 

The last time he'd let me into his world his words were so different, his thoughts, his speech, everything.

I remember very quietly asking, as though it could possess the power to restore us, if he wanted to read to me. 

I held my breath in hope the seconds it took him to answer.

No, was his reply. 

And I wonder how differently the night would have gone had he simply said yes.

Yes, I will read to you.

My darling.

What would you like to hear about?

Mermaids or unicorns. 

You can only choose one.

I choose...

Both!

You can't have both, you can choose one.

I'm a unicorn.

Yes, you are.

I choose unicorns.

This is a really good book. 

Yeah.

The book of symbols.

Read me some more?

sweets for the troll

He reads my blog.

He's reading this right now. 

Or will when curiosity gets a hold of him. 

Or because I told him not to. 

I realize now asking him to not do something is really like saying, oh please please do it, because we subscribe to the same Don't Tell Me What to Fucking Do! Logic.

That wasn't actually my intent, though.

See, I made a mistake.

7 weeks pass and I feel a tinge of kindness overshadow my fear. 

So what do I do?

I communicate it. 

And what does he do?

Rejects it. Violently. 

I don't know why I'd never thought to Google him (I'm a bad stalker) but one night I did and I found all these songs back from when he was a kid. (Which actually wasn't that many years ago)

And it was really wonderful because they were songs he'd played for me, months back, when things were wonderful and magical and I couldn't believe how happy I was just laying in his sheets. 

So hearing the music again felt like some sort of time machine. 

It let my brain exist in a memory that didn't cause my hands to shake, and it felt incredible for my thought life to exist there. 

For the first time in months. 

And I don't know, I guess I knew my friend going into his bar and throwing a drink upset him (even though he deserves worse) and I wanted to provide some minuscule fragment of comfort because that's the sappy woman I am and I just wanted. 

I wanted, whatever communication we were to have. 

If there would be any. 

To be kind. 

Loving truth. 

I'm a naive little fucker.

So I sent him a text. 

And I told him I'd found his music and I just wanted him to know listening to it made me really happy. 

And he responded that he'd made it private now so I could no longer listen to it. 

And I know it shouldn't have, but it surprised me. 

I shared this joyful secret of mine, that it comforted my heart to listen to his voice singing mournfully as I folded laundry in my living room. 

And all he wanted was to take that thing that brought me joy away. 

I guess it was one more thing for him to destroy.

And then.

THEN.

He texted me that he'd just read some of my blog and was upset about what I wrote. 

He quoted something I'd written the next day which meant he'd continued reading my blog. 

So. 

It was unhealthy for me to ask him to not make his music private, music he'd shared publicly for years. 

But it was his perfect right, to go seek out my blog, and read that, and then be upset about what I'd written, even if he admitted my words were, albeit some true.

I find our interaction so disheartening. 

Because one. 

I truly believed I'd never hear from him again. 

But instead of replying to my kindness with kindness, he was responding to be hurtful.

He actually told me to Move along.

When I read that sentence I was so stunned I put my phone down and refused to respond. 

Move along??

W O W.

I am offering a loving interaction after the literal hell he put me through and that is his response. 

N O O O.

I saw Amelie that night and told her what happened.

And when I got to the last part I said, NO. Nooooo.

And she laughed and said, That's the girl I know.

She told me once I didn't realize how much I said that. 

No.

When I'm making an important point or standing up for myself, for what I believe, when I feel I have been wronged by someone I love. 

I always say, NO.

One time when I was walking late at night alone to my car and my PTSD creeped in and tried to frighten me into an anxiety attack I said, No. No. No. No no no no no. NO.

And surprisingly. 

It worked.

So I told her I'd sent him a No text. 

Because while I don't want to have anything to do with any negative interactions with him, I also can't stay silent when something is important. 

And this probably sounds ridiculous but I've gone back and reread the text I sent him so many times. 

Because it comforts me. 

It comforts me knowing that I responded to hate with loving truth. 

It comforts me that I said exactly what I needed to say and I called him out on his shit. 

He told me once he hated that I called him out on his shit and I don't care. 

Men need to be called out. 

We all do. 

But especially men. 

There's this pressure on women to be so fucking agreeable all the time and when someone is lying to my face I am going to tell them I know exactly what they're doing. 

Feigning memory loss is a great tactic when you don't want to deal with something. 

But I am a force to be dealt with. 

And if you don't have the strength to be honest, you will never survive the winds of my loving truth. 

That shit will knock you DOWN.

5 years later and your dick is still small

I am officially gay.

My threshold for withstanding male douchery has been maxed out this year and now I have no desire for another dick.

Literally.

And literally. 

He's married. 

MA-REE-DUH.

And it's not like I haven't been the other woman before. 

I have been several times. 

Lots of times. 

Way too god damn many times why are men who aren't available always wanting to see me naked?

But when he found me on Facebook I was more curious because we'd dated briefly one summer years back and he'd kinda been an ass then. 

And now he was messaging me about how I was looking just as bombshell as the moment he saw me at Nordstrom. 

Geez, Asshole, I fucking forgot you even ran into me at Nordstrom. 

It's nice to know you're still in someone's spank bank, isn't it?

What a fucking romantic.

But like any idiot girl curious by the attention I allowed it. 

I didn't flirt back but I did respond, which I guess makes me an asshole by proxy.

It is great to hear your voice! Thru messages I can hear it almost...It might be dangerous to actually hear your voice.

So I wrote back, Don't worry, I started smoking last year and now I sound like an old man.

Flirting skills on point. 

This is why I get all the men with girlfriends and wives. 

That and my boobs.

I think men assume women with large breasts are whores.

Because really, what else are those for if not, THEIR enjoyment?

But I didn't really take him seriously except that I did notice his behavior started to have the familiarity of 5 years ago. 

He was the type of guy to send you a good morning text every day. 

Which drives me fucking bananas. 

Good morning!

Whaa--yeah, it's morning, fine what do you want?

The only person whose allowed to text me all day is Amelie and that's because we're soul mates. 

I don't know why I was even texting him back except it was so fucking entertaining and it was nice to be amused by something instead of feeling sad all the time.

He has kids, by the bye. 

Did I mention he has kids?

All of his Instagram is photos of his OSU clad family. 

I fucking hate the color orange. 

Oh and hey buddy?

The Beavers fucking suck. 

GO DUCKS!

But you know, it's cool, he just wanted to flirt, and it must be hard having a picture perfect family, he must get real bored. 

There's a post a few months ago where he captioned a photo of him and his wife, As we embark on our evening journey (BARF) I can't help but think of all the ways you've changed my life. You've shown me what family means...

HUOHOP.

I have to stop there because I can feel the actual bile rising in my throat.

Because then, oh look, what happens next?

What's that he just sent, Reese?

It's a photo of his cock. 

Big deal. So original, right?

Oh but wait.

It's a photo of his cock IN BETWEEN HIS WIFES BREASTS AS SHES LICKING IT.

I'd say sucking him off but he's not actually long enough to make it to her mouth so the poor girl is working real hard while he takes a fucking photo to SEND TO OTHER WOMEN.

Now, don't get me wrong. 

If they were swingers or had an open marriage?

Fine. Whatever. 

Non monogamous poly sexy fun times to be had by all.

But they're not. 

He actually wanted to text because the wifey sometimes checks Facebook.

Dear Lord.

And she has no idea. 

She has two kids with this man she probably thinks is this wonderful husband and he has probably been cheating on her this whole time. 

If I recall, that's why his first wife left him. 

Because he'd cheated. 

I don't know why he suddenly reached out.

He'd written It was hard for me to not reach out once I stalked through your Instagram...

Fucking flatterer.

And me, the Diva who eats that shit up.

Ugh. Gross.

And then we suddenly escalate from do you wanna grab lunch sometime and catch up to here's my wife's tits and my in-case-you-forgot-how-average-I-was cock.

I'm home sick in bed so I took a nap then woke up to a penis.

Typical day.

I responded the only way I could. 

I deleted his texts. 

Blocked his number. 

Blocked him on Facebook. 

Blocked him on Instagram.

That's one good thing about living in the digital age. 

It is actually simple to erase someone from your life. 

And curiouser, he'd asked me where I worked and I never told him. 

Something inside me didn't want him knowing where to find me. 

Guess my Douchebag senses went off. 

Maybe there's hope for me after all.

I'm also never letting a guy photograph his dick in my mouth.

Be in the moment, you epic asshole.

Fucking hell.

Popcorn for Three

Whenever Amelie and I want to cheer up we go to The Box Social.

It was the first place we met up at last year when we reconnected.

And because of that, it became our place.

It was each of our favorite spot before we met there. 

Which was just another reason why we were soul mates. 

You wanna get a drink at box social? She asked me last night. 

And of course my answer was and always is, Yes.

We walked in and David, as he always does, says, Good evening, Teresa and asks if we're having our usual and we smile and nod and snuggle up on the same side of the booth and look out at the people and the painted walls and the bottles that line the shelves. 

A girl sat down beside us and ordered a drink.

She was dolled up and adorable and seemed content with the sole company of her cell phone. 

Minutes passed and I wondered if she was meeting somebody.

Maybe she's just having a drink with herself, the way I always used to do, I thought. That would be rad. 

She ordered popcorn and Amelie thought that sounded good so she ordered some too.

You can have some of mine, the girl offered, I'm not gonna eat it all.

And with that, we all began talking.

Hours passed and Amelie and I both loved her, thinking it was magical happenstance to stumble upon a kindred spirit who loved this bar as much as we did. 

We talked of love and sex and the critical need we each had for a therapist. 

She was strong and guarded, which I admired, and our night felt like the kind of first date you always hope Tinder might bring. 

But this was just a conversation that had turned into a connection. 

And it was lovely. 

And so simple. 

And such a needed reminder that not everything is painful and chaotic and uncertain. 

Sometimes people simply delight in you. 

And are so grateful you exist, that this moment between you exists, and no one else, because nothing more is needed, but this. 

All this.

"You're miraculous. Because you live."--Our new friend

move along

I forget how much I love your direct ways.

When I read his text it suddenly made me think of Batman. 

Most of the men in my world tend to be overwhelmed by my inability to hold back what I'm actually thinking. 

But there are a select few who get off on it.

And it has been a long time since I talked to one of those guys.

I really liked it. 

I hate it when people aren't honest with me. 

I pissed you off, I hurt your feelings, you wish I would have come to your concert that you didn't communicate was such a big fucking deal?

Then use your words and say so.

I'm not a mind reader. 

And I'm also so unabashedly candid I forget the rest of the world isn't. 

So hearing from this kid I hadn't talked to in five years that was, frankly, kind of a dick the last time I heard from him, was so fucking random I couldn't help asking him straight up, what's the deal?

You just bored and need some attention or are you looking to fuck?

His response?

I forget how much I love your direct ways.

Fuck.

Thank you.

Thank you for not making me feel like there's something wrong with me for saying what anyone would be thinking but who rarely ever actually communicate anything honest. 

I'm losing respect for people who lie. 

Even silence feels like a lie. 

I haven't heard from my mother for a week because she said something hurtful and I called her out on it and her response was to not respond. 

My own mother. 

It's not just the guys on Tinder who ghost you or your best friend of 15 years who dumps you.

Everyone hates being called on their shit.

Except for a very select few. 

I remember a couple months ago Amelie upsetting me. 

And I told her. 

Because I don't lie to the people I love.

And even though it was kind of hard, for both of us, she said she wanted me to always be honest with her, even if sometimes it was hard to hear. 

And I need people who accept that part of me in my life. 

Sometimes I feel hurt and depressed and scared or really fucking mad. 

And I don't lie and say I'm fine, because society wants me to be a dulcet little lady.

I am not going to lie to avoid conflict and keep the pain that's suffocating me inside. 

I'm going to express it, write it, get it the fuck out, so it exists.

It's acknowledged. 

And then I can release it and move on to feeling balanced again. 

And the few who get me will always understand that.

Understand what a vital act it is for me to let my darkness out.

It's okay

Don't be mad...

But I may have chucked a full glass of water in someone's face tonight.

I'd been in a depressed haze all week and I remember laying in Amelie's bed when I got the text.

Oh my god, I said aloud, which was basically the equivalent of me embodying the open mouthed stunned emoji.

I knew exactly who she was talking about.

Mostly because of all my friends she was the most angry about what happened. 

And she also was the only one who traveled two weeks with me and saw how changed I was.

Sleepless nights.

Crying outbursts.

Anxiety. Paranoia. Confusion.

I remember feeling very loved that she felt the need to stand up for me like that.

Especially because I can't be angry right now.

It felt kind of nice having someone be angry for me. 

All I seemed to feel was depressed.

I felt like I was vicariously living through her. 

Even though I felt none of what she was feeling. 

I gotta be honest, I couldn't walk by and do nothing. Nobody hurts my friends. I am your warrior and will protect you until I cannot stand.

I don't know why I date men. 

The women in my life are the loves of my life.

I don't think I've ever known a man whose loved me as much as they do.

Which is probably why a few weeks ago I opened up my Tinder to women as well.

I seem to have better relationships with them, so who the fuck knows.

It did bother me that he thought I sent her to do that, though.

I know I have a lot of flaws but I don't lie or misrepresent myself.

I'm honest to the point of absurdity. 

So now to have this person I both love and fear thinking I set this whole thing up was unsettling.

But I realized there wasn't anything I could really do. 

Because people will believe what they want even after they've heard the truth.

And I knew in the grand scheme of things it didn't matter. 

Because if we were ever going to talk again that wouldn't change because of a little water. 

And if we were never going to talk then nothing I did or did not participate in would change that.

I know I'm still depressed but it's calmer now.

I guess that's my anxiety depleting?

I don't know, I don't understand any of what's going on. 

But it's strange. 

It's strange to process something that involves another person without having them as part of the process.

I don't get to have a conversation or look into their eyes or cry in the same room together or understand each other's pain. 

I'm alone.

I have my support, my friends are why I'm alive.

But no one. 

No one but him and I understand what exists between him and I. 

And I don't think either one of us even fully understands. 

Which means no one does. 

And what I do think I understand, in any one particular moment of understanding, is never the same. 

Sometimes I think I have a glimmer of what might actually be real.

But most of the time I'm uncertain.

And I guess that's okay. 

That's all I have now. 

Being okay.

Okay with uncertainty. 

Okay with processing alone.

Okay with no one understanding what all this is.

Including me. 

all you need is one great bag

Last week was really rough.

I'm not even sure why. 

It just was.

And then on Sunday as I kept trying hour to hour to distract myself, I went to goodwill.

And it's so ridiculous but it made me really happy.

I can't remember the last year I went into one. 

But being there it suddenly reminded me of what it was to be 20 again. 

Back when I shopped there because it was cool to wear old clothes I got for $6.99.

Back when I was such a naive, hopeless romantic.

Back when I still had faith in love. 

It was like some sort of time machine, rifling through those dirty hangers and ridiculous types of clothes. 

I found a beyond silly Christmas vest for $3.99.

I bought it. 

I'm going to win tacky Christmas sweater day at my work again this year. 

And I bought a wig that's long auburn colored hair so when I want to feel like that red headed girl I used to be I can feel that too. 

The other thing I remembered about who I was when I was 20 was that I loved fashion. 

Dressing was such an intrinsic part of my self expression, it was constantly changing, vibrant colors, experimenting, layering.

It was such a part of who I was. 

And lately I've been living in the same 5 euro pair of leggings I got in Ireland and it's been boring as fuck.

So every day this week. 

Every day. 

I've worn something expressive. 

The white dress with blue flowers, and blue stockings and my blue sweater and the tan belt that matches my tan bag I got in Galway.

And then I wore the red 60s dress that makes me look like Joan Holloway and little black heels. 

I can't remember the last time I wore heels. 

And today I woke up and I was tired. 

Really tired. 

I can't wear a dress and stockings today, I thought. I just can't. 

So I decided it was okay to wear my leggings.

But then I remembered the striped boat neck sweater I have and put on the wedges that were the only pair of shoes Kai ever liked (god, he was opinionated) and I'd turned my lazy legging outfit into a 50s Rizzo inspired look and I smiled at my reflection. 

I know I'm never going to be the same girl I was when I was 20. 

And I know I'm not the same woman who once had long red hair. 

But it's comforting to see I'm still the creative, expressive woman I once loved to be. 

Some things are worth not giving up on. 

Acclimatized

I told my therapist I've been having trouble writing. 

And she said when I accepted everything I was feeling the writing would come. 

Normally when I sit down to write it's to express an emotion. 

'An' being the key. 

Not 27 different emotions, especially ones that all contradict and confuse each other. 

And I don't understand what I'm feeling. 

I don't even believe all I am feeling. 

You know I've had three sessions with her and I still haven't mentioned anything about my best friend of 15 years ending our friendship. 

I feel like that means something. 

I'm incredibly sensitive right now. 

Fragile.  

She said I was strong, that it was strong for me to be there and I laughed. 

I didn't mean to be rude I just don't feel strong at all. 

She described in detail, to help me understand what I'm going through, what trauma is.

I was uncomfortable just hearing the description.

She said she saw me shaking as she was talking. 

I can't even fucking hear a technical definition without nearly squirming out of my own skin. 

But it's ok, she keeps telling me. 

It's ok to be feeling what I'm feeling, it's natural, even. 

Natural. 

My flip flop back and forth up and down wildly inconsistent state of mind and emotional life is natural. 

And I feel like I'm in the room in Wonderland where I'm walking upside down on the ceiling. 

Seems almost comical. 

To be told my chaos is natural.

He called. 

33 days and then he called. 

I thought it was what I wanted. 

Another voicemail. 

Intense emotions. 

But I didn't want to talk anymore. 

Not after I heard what he had to say. 

As I just assume that we don't really speak to each other again, so-

It was like he called just to say the one thing he knows my heart never wants to be true.

Clever, really. 

I brushed it off at first that he was just drunk and feeling sorry for himself. 

And he's certainly bid me adieu, as though it were til the end of time, multiple times.

But it's rather funny, isn't it. 

I thought his silence was more hurtful but hearing his voice say we'll never talk again was actually worse.

We don't really know how awful something can be until we hear the disdain in their voice. 

My task is to be okay with not being okay.

Which I'm not. 

I hate it.  

I hate how out of control I'm feeling. 

How fucking needy and sensitive and confused. 

I feel like a small child who needs to be told which way to walk. 

You know when kids start to wander off and their parent calls, No, Reese, this way, come on, with the same affectionate command they'd use with their pet dog, so they don't get lost.

But no one is here to call my name and tell me which way we're walking. 

So I kind of slowly wander around, trying to give the impression that I meant to walk into this building or talk with these people or eat certain foods. 

When what I really want is someone to just tell me.

Guide me. 

Point me in a direction and gently push. 

My body isn't broken but I wish someone would help hold up my body like I was in physical therapy 24 hours a day. 

When she talked to me about healing trauma she used the word acclimated. 

That I would learn to acclimate to what happened.

And I thought about how my friend said humans are like cockroaches. 

Because they are the only organism that can survive in any climate. 

They can live for 6 days without their head. 

So that's what I am to become now. 

I won't forget what happened. 

I will never be without it, that night forever will exist in the recesses of my brain. 

But eventually, slowly, I will have learned to cope.

I'll learn to live with my head cut off. 

Or rather my heart. 

Cut out.