“I make the most of all this stress
I try to live without regret
But I’m about to make a sweat
I’m freaking out
It’s like a poison in my brain
It’s like a fog that blurs the sane
It’s like a vine you can’ untangle
I’m freaking out”— Jonas Brothers
This is your sign of life, dear reader. Despite the war between my body, heart and brain I emerge from the battle with only a partially decompressed lung, a doctor appointment I’m trying not to think about, and a community ready to hit the gas in a residential zone without a second thought.
I’m left with a feeling (coming from no direction but inward) that no one would notice if I was gone, a gift from my exes in the form of prompts for “further testing” and “keep a eye out for any other side effects”, a question of where I’m going while the weight of where I’ve been crushing me from the bottom upward. Lots have happened. Lots have changed. Where do I begin?
Oh yea, I turned 27. And considering the fact that I rued turning all ages after 21, I have BIG feelings about it. I spent it quiet – volunteering, working, and avoiding in person “happy birthday” wishes. I’ve accomplished so much that wasn’t on the list and maybe nothing that was on the list. So, what the fuck am I supposed to do with that? Well, that’s the adventure you’re on with me, dear reader!
Oh, and don’t get pneumonia. I could not be more serious. Mask when you’re traveling, take your asthma seriously, and make sure you are vaccinated. I thought I was fine and it was just a sore throat/cold situation.
The doctor told me if I hadn’t taken my chest pain seriously and went back to sleep as planned, I wouldn’t have woken up. Please, please, please take care of yourself. The antibiotics are a bitch and being stuck at home sucks, but it would’ve probably sucked dying alone when my body was screaming at me much much more.
And now, I’ve got five different appointments for five different systems that aren’t working properly – yay! I will say that I established new care with a doctor that isn’t Black, and she listened and even overrode some of my dismissal and ran all the tests. So, even while my body tries it’s hardest to adjust to the damage I did in March, I know I’m good in good hands.
But I don’t think that’s the important part in all of this. It’s definitely one of the parts, but not *the* part. No, the most important part is that, through out of it, I stayed brave. And let me tell you, brave doesn’t look brave at times. Life has felt more or less like a stove, and I’ve been pacing infront of it in survival mood instead of exploring the heat and not assuming it would burn me from the inside out. My hand is sore but I haven’t been turned to ash when I sit in the discomfort with….maybe everything, honestly, but mostly the truths I’ve been avoiding about my worth.
I suppose somewhere in this journey, I forgot that just because Im going through big and unique things doesn’t mean I’m exempt from the regular “Oh my god what am I doing with my life?!” panic that one might get when they are close to 30 and trying to figure out what they want, what they need, and if those things can meet in the middle somewhere.
Am I ever making my mom, my dad, and my godfather proud?
Is this what it looks like to be successful?
Is who you are now what you want to be or who you have to be?
It’s overwhelming. It’s annoying. It’s repetitive. It’s mind numbling. And it tends to get old real quick. Still, I go to bed and wake up every day to stand infront of the stove and wait for the first burner to come on. Sometimes it’s tedious things – will I eat breakfast today? – and other times it’s more complicated – this connection hurts, do I cut them off?. I’ve been trying to practice the art of stillness (a different topic for a different day), and every part of me that blossoms to its full height feels like another mountain climbed – emotionally, physically, and spiritually. I never gave things real thought, I just turned on autopilot and decided that my comfort lived in people pleasing, in risking my health just to get a project done, and of never checking in on what Mia needs.
So, since the last time we spoke, I have questioned whether anyone would notice I was gone. I battled with the core belief that of course no one would, not because that makes sense, but because it keeps me safe. I trust my village, so when they say good things about a person, you believe them, because why would they lie? If they tell you a person is incredibly pretty, and smart, and kind, you become in awe of them. When they tell you they believe in that this person will do great things no matter what, your reaction is to agree.
But when that person they said all those things about is you – and they have the reciepts and hundreds of voices agreeing – you freeze up. Because in that feels like alot of opportunity to disappoint them, alot of “nuh-uh, because {insert trauma} happened!”, a lot of scary unknowns of what it means if they are right. The daunting part isn’t that they need you to be pretty or smart or even know, but that they want you to exist in whatever form is real to you.
What if I, Mia, am enough in any form I fall into? It’s kind of like when you get called pretty on a day you decided you wanted to look like you’ve been through trials and tribulations, but 300x more shocking. Now imagine that happening every, lets say three hours. Unprompted, by accident, and without your consent – like being strapped to a chair with your eyes held open, but instead of torture, its just facts about how worthy you are. Every. Three. Hours. After years of rejecting achievement, pride, and contentness. Dear reader, you’d want to knock over a bulidng just like I do. But that’s okay, because we’re still here putting our hands on the stove.
Gang gang, my loves.
Until next time, my weeping willows!
~ Amillia
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