Messy but thriving

“Start by admitting from cradle to tomb
It isn’t that long a stay
Life is a cabaret, old chum
It’s only a cabaret, old chum
And I love a cabaret!“— Liza Minelli

Let’s all pretend it’s Sunday and we are on schedule the way I planned it so that I don’t have to admit that the last week has been spent in a manic blur full of paperwork, blood tests, crying, and more paperwork.

Okay? Okay.

I would’ve loved to come back to you with all my pieces and brain wrinkles intact, but alas, nature calls. Or maybe it’s the devil disguised as nature. Or maybe it’s what happens when the devil takes a vacation and they need a substitute teacher to keep me humble.

Either way, they’ve changed the name from PCOS (Polycystic Ovary Syndrome) to PMOS (Polyendocrine Metabolic Ovarian Syndrome), which is great, because I think it better describes the clusterfuck of emotions and pain I’ll be dealing with for the next nine days. Does that mean I’m not pregnant, despite the THREE positive pregnancy tests? Yes, I guess THAT’S the most normal part in this experience (if you experience this, request labs for a blood test instead of a urine one!!). Should I consider it positive that I’m not the mother of a child to exes that absolutely hate me and are committed to doing so, in this economy and in my mental health state?

Sure, the defense can rest it’s case: “Mia, you’re still not over them, it’s too soon!” “Mia, aren’t you glad not to have to prep raising a child in this current political climate??“ “Mia, you’re disabled, broke, and technially displaced – just thank the stars you’ve got all of your senses!” Yea yea yea – your Honor, respectfully, I need the defense to fuck off.

Did I still end up as a sobbing mess on the floor for 4+ hours because, even with the heartbreak it would’ve caused, single motherhood it would’ve led to, and the stress it would’ve built on, I wanted my uterus to create a bundle of tiny toes and giggles that was made up of only the best parts of me and my ex?

Yes. The want was incredibly selfish, and yet I had to use my inhaler for the first time in 8 years as I pushed into my carpet with the intention of slowing time, slowing the tears, and slowing the scream bubbling up from my core (think that one scene in Midsommer. While my pain is valid, it’s also insanely cinematic, for better or worse). Spoilers: it slowed nothing, I nearly fainted from the panic attack I couldn’t shake, and I have half the mind of paying the next guy $40 to get rid of the faulty contraption causing me despair.

But I’m not on the streets pondering the meaning of life or years it would take for them to create techonolgy advanced enough for me to get ahold of my uterus and toss it like an old hamburger wrapper – mainly because the first three days of my cycle are brain fog, lightening bolts of pain and irritability with the passion of a thousand suns – but also because I’m with you, my dear reader, and I’m here to talk to you about something….

Yes, something…..what was it again….?

Ah, yes, shame! That annoying bastard. I’ve gotten so used to feeling and labeling him now- yes, him – that I’ve named him Tyler and am fixin to send a strongly worded letter about him to my deadbeat Father (callback!). He doesn’t care that I’ve just attempted to organize the shelves in my heart, mopped the floors of my brain, and swept the neglected corners of my nervous system. Nah, Tyler comes in – unemployed, muddy, and smelling like 4-in-1 Axe body wash – and touches everything until my hard work doesn’t seem to matter in the end.

We all know Tyler is a lying, bad breath bitch. We would never let Tyler disrespect our loved ones the way he disrespects us. We would never let Tyler’s thoughts or unique rules force our loved ones into isolation if we could help it. And yet, we all know that we treat Tyler like the boy we know we should probably block, but don’t, because he sounds kinda right and feels really familiar.

And I know that Tyler tried to keep me safe, once upon a time. He kept me in line by telling me that if I just stayed small enough, just stayed quiet enough, and just hated myself enough (for literally fucking everything), that I would never hurt ever again. I believed him. He’s a fucking liar. BUT, when he shows up now, I know to “pay attention”.

“Pay attention” in this case means blindsiding him, tying him to a chair, taping his mouth shut, and turning on the dingy swaying light over us (because somehow we ended up in an 80s cop movie interrogation room), and retracing his steps and motives until I’m able to find Little Mia at the end of the trail.

Healing can be aggressive. But not as aggressive as hating yourelf to death for the sake of the lie that you’re a bad person, crafted from Tyler in some round about way to protect you that actually causes more pain, harm, and medical bills. Hmph. Write that down, honeybun. Tyler deserves for his socks to always be wet.

The chaotically beautiful thing about healing and riding the wave is that you kind of have to let shame not have shame. Treat shame the way you treat food you aren’t really sure of. Pick it up, give it a smell test, maybe taste it a bit, but never go in for the big bite or the swallow. It’s a muscle I will have to keep exercising for probably forever, but god, Tyler looks so small and irrelevant all tied up without his nasty ass hands on my heart or my brain.

Is my knee jerk reaction to feel shame about my story? Yes. Is my knee jerk reaction to feel shame about my suicide attempt and almost success? Yes. Did my mania let Tyler untie himself and start whispering sweet nothings in my ear while I was battling homelessness and the loss of a pregnancy I didn’t have? Yes. But does anything that Tyler says have logical sense?? Hell the fuck nah. Tyler is the red pill incel. Tyler is the narcissistic mother in law. Tyler is the pick me girl in your first year college seminar. Tyler is a kangaroo. Ain’t never made sense, will never make sense.

And baby, let me tell you one of the best things I’ve ever shared with anyone: If you got to jump through fire to understand it, then maybe it ain’t for you to understand. It ain’t above you, it’s below you, and we don’t bend and break for nothing over here. Not anymore.

Tyler can visit. Tyler can sneak up on me. Tyler can say what he has to say. I’m just choosing to no longer believe it, swallow it, or live it. He’s strong, but my commitment to getting the life and love I’ve dreamed of is stronger. It makes no sense for me to blame myself for things I’d never even think to blame anyone else for. Me and my therapist had to powermap Tyler to sentences like “poor people don’t deserve nice things” and “abuse survivors should’ve tried harder” for me to understand how much of a bleach blonde, bad built, butch body he is. Even trauma brain can’t convince me that those statements are true about any of yall…..so why would they be for me?

BABY, I’m over here HEALING. F U C K T Y L E R.

Okay, enough of that aggressive but very satisifying blog post writing – onto two updates!

1.) I’ve created a new page on Messy But Thriving called Bleeding Ink (isn’t that so deliciously emo?!?!?). If you don’t feel like we are close enough and need more gut wrenching details from me and my inner storm cloud, this is where you’ll go. I’ll be throwing up some short fiction pieces, lists of things (like the songs list or coping mechanisms), poetry, etc etc – more of a direct and purely vulnerable corner we can crawl in and out of. I’ll bleed my heart out here, fair warning. Updates here will happen on Fridays, and I’m still working out whether I want to give out notifications for it or just let it sit and fester *evil laugh*.

2.) People have asked about and/or requested that I start a podcast or Youtube channel. Meh, maybe some day, but not anytime soon. I might make an appearance on TikTok when Im feeling better, but writing is my passion, and I really am not trying to be an influencer. I kinda just like showing yall how falling apart on Thursday and being glued back together on Saturday is the normal everyday human experience.

Anyways, I have a headache, I’m hungry, and my cramps have me fixin to pull Mr. Crocker moves to get comfy, so I hope this post helps you face your Tyler and everything that comes with it.

Until next time, my weeping willows!

~ Amillia