Posted in Being Vulnerable

Mrs.

I’m not sure you know this, but I hated the day you got married. It was a day that defined our different teams. You became misses and I stayed miss. I didn’t foresee how things would change. I just knew they would. You would be with him more and I would be with me more.

The only consolation was that we still got bagels and coffee together.

But then you changed.

Suddenly you started to believe I didn’t understand because I wasn’t married and I started to believe you didn’t understand because you were married. It was a mess.

And I just want to say, I’m sorry.

I am sorry for contributing to the distance.

I just wanted my friend back. I wanted the girl in pearls back! But you were gone, deep in the marriage pit where I didn’t live. There were days I wished I could drag you out of there because I knew you weren’t happy, but what could I say to change your mind? You were stuck.

And so the years went by with more and more distance between us until one day you told me you were going to therapy.

Finally we were on the same team again. Because I was broken then too.

You told me that you struggled with being too hard on yourself. I did too.

And when I told you what I did to deserve therapy, you said, “Yeah, I’ve been there too.”

Now, all I can say is, thank you. Thank you for closing the distance because I really needed you.

Posted in Being Vulnerable

Her.

There she goes again.

Walking past me with that flat-lined expression and hunched shoulders. When’s the last time she smiled without a cigarette? When’s the last time she asked herself why she’s here?

Nothing ever changes with her. Her movement, the way her arms rarely join her legs, the way one shoulder is always higher than the other, it’s almost robotic. I try to say hello, but she doesn’t hear me. Her thoughts are elsewhere. Joining her breath, I pause. Can she even see me? I wish she would see what I see. The tension, the loss, the lines of misery. Everything is so clear to me. She needs to take a break, but she’s not even sure how. Her body has been in this state of wreckage for so long the tension has become muscle memory. She can’t let go! She holds this team together. But does she? Her stress has already infected the masses and everyone is sick to the core because of her. “What is life without work?”, she asks me one day. Before I have time to respond, she beats me to it with a quiet, “nothing”. 

Why does she think like this, I wonder. Where is the answer? Did her dad call her lazy as a child or did her mom never show up for her? Why does her value stem from her work when her work brings her nothing but a weak paycheck? If I could shake her shoulders without screaming, I would. I would take hold of her, look her straight in the face and say, “You are enough. You don’t need to be here to prove it.” 

But would this bring any change in her? 

Her pain is rooted far beyond what I can see and there’s no accessing it. She might as well be a walking corpse because I can’t bring her back to life. Only she can. And it tears me apart knowing that her stress is spreading and there is nothing I can do about it. 

All I can do is hope and wait till tomorrow when I see her in the mirror again with that flat-lined expression and give her a smile.

Posted in Being Vulnerable

What is weird?

Let’s just say, I’ve always been known as a weirdo. In school I would participate in class, probably too much for anyone’s liking. Some people may call it being inquisitive, others may call it being annoying. You get the gist. And skipping. I was a big skipper of hallways back in the day. Also, I spent quite a bit of time with the library peeps who liked to play World of Warcraft. And like I mentioned before, I was very well known for my laugh.

Now, I never saw any of this as weird funny enough.

I thought I was the normal one and everyone else was the weird ones. They would laugh the same, talk the same, dress the same and it confused me! I couldn’t understand why people wanted to fit in so badly that they would change their identity for it. The only way I found out I was the supposed weird one was because someone mentioned it to me in passing one or two times.

Of course I struggled like every other girl with wanting to be skinny and blah blah blah, but that was never about fitting in. That was about being the best athlete I could be. I felt I couldn’t be the best version of me unless I constantly challenged myself, even if the challenges bordered on obsessive compulsive tendencies. And okay yeah maybe one or two people mentioned I was chubby when I was younger. And let’s be real, that girl still lives within me. BUT what I am getting at is I’ve owned my weirdness from day one, even with family remarks to shave my armpits or to speak in a lower frequency for the sake of humanity.

I have remained the same and I am proud of that.

Not enough of us really take the time to recognize our strengths because we’re constantly bombarded with our own self criticism, which is why I am taking the time right now to let everyone know that I am a complete weirdo and I am proud of it.

What are you proud of?

Posted in Being Vulnerable

S.A. doesn’t always mean Smart Ass

Well that last one was cute. Easy read, easy to forget. That’s fine. So what about this one? Should it be light or heavy? This week has been a bit heavy. Nothing unimaginable, just some good learning opportunities jumping out at me. For example, I’ve been confronted, again, with the hard fact that I am severely impatient.

And this isn’t news to me.

Yet it still hurts to be reminded again and again about it. I mean, I want to be patient. Obviously. And honestly I work on it all the time. Trust me! All I’ve ever dreamed about is being that calm water people trust. But the reality is, there’s a shark in this water.

Now, I could blame my ego for this, as many people tend to do, but I refuse to believe my ego is the bad guy. Instead, I choose to believe my ego is my self defense coming to shield me from harm. It’s not trying to hinder my performance, but protect it. I snap like a shark because that’s my survival instinct.

However, I’ve come to realize that travelling in survival mode really isn’t my best mode of transportation anymore.

And you know what is?

Compassion.

Ew, gross! Not compassion! Not that icky sticky yucky emotional shit. God, please, anything but that!

Unfortunately, yes, compassion is the best driver.

And I realize that now.

However, realization is funny. It’s never there when you need it. It’s essentially one of those useless friends that show up two hours late to a party with zero remorse.

“Like common dude, where were you when I needed you?!”

“Um, well, I was sleeping man.”

“Well thanks for nothing you sorry son of a bitch.”

And that’s where self awareness comes in. Now, self awareness is another friend. She’s the true friend you need to love and dote over because when she does show up to the party, she saves your ass! But, she won’t show up unannounced. She’s not pushy like that. You need to invite her in, make her feel comfortable, offer her a beverage and tell her how gorgeous she is. Like I said, she needs love. And eventually, after much wooing, she will come around unannounced and unguarded and ready to show up for you. And just when you least expect it, she’ll walk in instead of Mr. Ego and you’ll be wondering why you didn’t invite her in sooner.