Messy but thriving

“Maybe if my heart stops beating

It won’t hurt this much

And never will I have to answer

Again to anyone”— Paramore

Lots of updates since the last time we’ve talked, dear reader. I’m sitting crisscrossed in my bed writing this on my phone, fighting cramps and what I think is bronchitis, and trying not to wistfully sigh at how badly I’ve missed you.

I’d love to say this is a completely happy update, but that would be a lie, and I save lies for moments that matter. But, I’ll start with the good stuff first – starting with my trip to DC!! I’m a National Storyteller with Planned Parenthood (PPH), and there’s nothing as soul saving as being around a bunch of people with different backgrounds united by the same goal. It was everything I needed. I got sun, I got laughs, I got tears, I got new friends, I got to see my best friend, I got drunk, I got trained. PPH saved my life and telling the story of a version of me that first found out that there are adults who teach people about their bodies and options for a living brings me great joy. This is my second visit with them, and each time I find a new fire in myself I didn’t know I had space to nurture- not just for political and policy advocacy, but for community building and narrative sharing. PPH saved my life, and will always have a special place in my heart.

Juneteenth was very lit! I didn’t get much done on my work side of things, but saw a lot of friendly faces in the crowd (and many food vendors I’ll be sure to visit later!). I wake up every day Black and gay but there are only a few times in the year that I feel that I get to really be surrounded by my people, and it was a much needed visit. Although I could’ve did without most of the walking – I was already feel a bit under the weather by this time and definitely did too much! Still, I’D DO IT AGAIN, BUT WITH MORE RIBS AND SHAVED PEACH ICE!

I also moved! Five minutes from the lake, two steps from my older brother’s door, and a short bus ride from the cutest downtown I’ve ever seen. I can go to my signing lessons, boxing lessons, church, and a bar all in the same block. Heaven? Not quite, but pretty damn close. Truth me told, this move was prompted by two things: legally, because I was getting evicted and mentally, because living in a place you chose to die in will chip at your mental. Spoilers: it’s pretty fucking expensive to survive an almost successful attempt, and I’m still working on sitting with the recognition of the eviction without it feeling like I’m swallowing glass. I can’t believe I let it get that bad, but that may be Tyler talking through me.

So here I am, sick and on my monthly, in my new place. And, I’ve spiraled again. Nothing as bad as last time – nope, we’ve got lithium to thank for that. But the perfectly fucked combination of sick blues and screwed hormones made a lot of things come to light. Truths I was avoiding, realities I told myself weren’t mine to tell. I don’t share this with you to alarm you, but to be honest about the very real up and downs that healing brings – outside of the passive sad waves and melancholy mornings.

I thought I left all the bad memories at the old place, thought I escaped the pressure of being honest with myself. But here I was just a few nights ago, staring at my own reflecting, re-living the nights me and my partners broke up. And it became all too real that the 5+ mental health professionals were right, all at once. There’s a reason I can’t “let it go”, and they told me, and I didn’t listen. There’s a reason my panic disorder flared when I was asked out the other day, and they told me why, and I didn’t listen. I didn’t – no, I don’t – want it to be true, because I feel it means so much about them and so much about me that I can’t unpack and clean up fast enough.

The truth? I was in an emotionally abusive relationship. Even as I type this, my skin crawls with a certain rejection from this reality that I can only label as “truth shockwaves”. And truly, it only matters in the context of my healing, because without facing this truth, I can never heal. But the words don’t feel right in my mouth, the label doesn’t seem to fit in all the corners of the story that I’ve brushed to the side. I’m a survivor – survivor of sexual assault, of loved ones deaths, of transracial adoption,of domestic violence, of sex inflicted wounds, or almost self inflicted death. How, after all of this surviving, can I the be a victim of emotional abuse??

That, again, is Tyler speaking. I’ve stood in my bathroom between coughing fits, contemplating that idea that they were right – I am selfish, I don’t make a good partner, I’m a liar. They said it and why would they say it if it wasn’t true? I’ve begun pacing the rooms at night with the idea that I should’ve just swallowed the pain he caused as he instructed and maybe, just maybe I would’ve saved the relationship. I would’ve forgotten about the near sexual assault because he cried after so it doesn’t count, right? He said I make things toxic and ruin them because that’s what I’m used to – and he had to be right……right? I’ve journaled, I cried, I contemplated changing everything I knew about myself to avoid anyone ever thinking so low of me again.

I refuse to be the spokesperson for those who have experienced emotional abuse. My brain refuses to believe I loved people that much who could weaponize my buried insecurities against me. I wasn’t perfect and I’ll never claim to be – I sewed my lips shut when I could’ve spoke with love, I spit out venom in times it only escalated things, and at the first sign of heart break I closed up shop and ran (literally, the day before Valentine’s Day). I have a million and one excuses I’ve stated, a million and one ways this was my fault. They call it cognitive empathy. I call it the nail in the coffin.

I think I held onto the idea of my perfect world for too long. It was my fault, so I could’ve fixed it. Could give it time to settle before graveling. Could backtrack all my boundaries in place of artificial affection. Could slim myself down to be digestible. If I just make myself single-handedly responsible for the downfall of a six month relationship I felt was my forever, then I have all the answers and this rumination is just my punishment for ruining everything, like they knew I would.

I struggle to be angry. I think and cry and think again and I’m just sad. So overwhelmingly distraught….and I don’t know at what or who or why. Bruises felt easier – physical, hard to argue with evidence that someone meant to hurt me past my limit. But this? A “she said, they said” game. And them? They’re fine. Or I guess that’s what my brain as landed on. Fine when we broke up. Fine when I tried to kill myself. Fine now as I spiral with the reality that they’re fine. I’m not angry. I want them to be happy, just not at my expense – not over my puddle of tears or grave or letters I won’t ever send.

I’m angry at myself and I don’t deserve that kind of treatment from me. Im angry I can’t let it go, angry that I still care about people who are perfectly fine without me, angry that I couldn’t see the emotional scars before they settled in. I don’t want anything but to stop caring about it, the way they stopped caring about me. But I can’t, because I did love them, and my heart takes a bit more time and energy to move past the abuse I suffered by loved ones.

Truth be told, I wonder if everyone else is wrong but them and everyone is better off with me…well, ya know. Not truly wonder, but moreso panic at the idea. I’ve sat on the bus picturing the empty seats at my funeral more times then I’d like to admit. I didn’t give myself enough space to dedicate to healing from this, and now I battle getting past the “you could fix this all with a forever nap” rhetoric.

Do you know how absolutely horrible it feels to hold the strong belief that the folks you fell inlove with would be much happier with you dead? Do you know how overwhelming it is that this thought shouts over all the names you can list of people you know feel the exact opposite?

The truth? I don’t want to die. I don’t want to hate anyone. I guess I just don’t want to be sad about it anymore. I want to be able to remember what was said and know it’s not true. Their happiness doesn’t mean what they said was true. I don’t demonize them, to my best friends annoyance. I just…live, I guess. Live despite the pain, despite the reminder that I tried putting my entire heart in a relationship when I was never going to good enough, live with the reality that they hate me for who they think I am and who I could never be.

Intent v.s impact is important to me, and I am bit too hyper focused on giving grace with this. And I suppose I’ve given enough grace, right? I genuinely could never share the damage that’s been caused with them – one, because I start to cry every time I remember they don’t care (or my assumption of their lack of care), and two, because it doesn’t change anything. There won’t be any making up. There won’t be any apologies or reconciliation. Nope. They get a new partner and new chapter and I get night terrors and suicidal ideation.

And I don’t mean to be so gloomy about it. There will come a day where I shed this pain and these memories and bury them with the love I had for them. Even now, writing this, I feel myself to be different- you couldn’t get me to say any of this weeks ago. I don’t feel like any less of a pathetic coward then I did then, but I do see that the alternative (and more true) reality is that maybe I loved people who didn’t deserve it, or weren’t ready for it, or never wanted it.

Life contains a lot of unanswered questions. And as I grapple with healing from emotional abuse – and the grey area it lives in – I just have to be okay with that. They just won’t know, and I will, and at some point that has to be okay. This isn’t Wattpad, there is no conflict resolution in an abusive situation like this, and I think that’s what breaks my heart the most – next to the realization that my absence and wounds inflicted means absolutely nothing to them. Again, feels really fucking pathetic.

But there is sun in every thunderstorm. My brother made me arroz con gandules (minus the gandules cause he ran out) the other night. My therapy and work schedules are back to normal, which makes me feel more normal. I finally responded back from an interested party who is down to take it slow. And, of course, I’m building something new for myself surrounded by people that would be devastated at my absence, in any form. I know now that I want more then what they could’ve offered – I want to be loved the way I love, I want to leave this world better then I found it, I want to build community with my authentic self, I want to feel safe around the people that claim to care for me.

I wish I was at the place where I wanted that for them too. And it’s not that I don’t. But I keep thinking of the time I pushed passed my fears to point out a hurt that was caused, and was met with a shouting “I don’t care”. I keep thinking about bleeding in the passenger seat of a car in a parking lot because the static got too loud over miscommunication. I keep thinking about the “she’s better then you” and “you’re saying it like something bad happened to you” and the “I’m happier with you”. I’m crying while I type this and I kind of just feel frozen. I don’t live in the space of love or hate – I don’t know what to call the room where I’m silently crying because sound makes it more real. Do I even have permission to be angry when their reality of hating me is also real?

Hear me when I say this: do not pity me. Even with acknowledging my rejection of the abuse that occured, there is not a single bone in my body that regrets putting my entire heart into it. I’ve learned from this, god, you don’t have to tell me twice about all the things I should take from this trainwreck. But the love on my end was real, and it blossomed, the way vines do when they find their favorite spots on buildings. It’s not about me holding on to the good times nestled into the bad ones, or excusing anyone’s behavior. It is the plain truth that having a big heart that’s never been treated right makes a person naive, and I refuse to berate myself over patterns that have, in other places, created lifelong connections.

So, dear reader…. I’m not really sure where that leaves us. I’d love to leave this on a happy ending but sometimes your day just fucking sucks and you make sure to bust out your good socks for the next day. And these past few days – even with the laughter and rest that snuck its way through – really sucked. Plainly put, I look forward to the day that my brain doesn’t think of my exes and immediately starts planning my funeral funding budget. Meh, *shoulder shrugs*, something to look forward to is still something.

Either way, I’m still here with you. I’ll still be writing, still be teasing about the projects I have’t been able to pick up since this emotional rollercoaster. Still loving hard and laughing loudly.

Still messy.

Still thriving.

Until next time, my weeping willows!

~ Amillia