three months ago, i definitely agreed with you. the relationship wasn’t doing me any good and that’s why i ended it. i’m not saying that anything’s changed now, but i miss her and a huge part of me hopes that if we tried again, we could have a really healthy, nourishing friendship. i don’t know if it will ever happen, but i don’t believe she is a bad person (at ALL), so i still have a lot of hope and leftover feelings and yeah
I miss my best friend so much. When we first stopped talking, I hated that I missed her, because I associated her with only the last couple months of our friendship, and those were so hard and shitty and I felt so bad about myself every time we talked.
And then that feeling faded, and I caught my bearings, and I got to live this life that was really, really separate from her, and I felt good. I had been seeking her approval too much, I had shaped myself to her terms. Finally, I started being my own person. And I thought I wouldn’t miss her too much.
And now here I am, 3 months since I last saw her, only a couple conversations here and there. I write every day in my little black notebook and for once I feel on track as far as achieving my dreams. I’m falling in love with one of my favorite people on the planet, and I get to kiss his face whenever I want, and that makes me smile so hard my cheeks hurt. I am so, so, so happy.
And still, I miss her. Not in the desperate, hard-to-breathe way I felt the first few weeks of school, where I was sure I wouldn’t be able to make it without her, where no one measured up. I miss her voice on the phone. I miss someone who wouldn’t take my crap. I wonder what she would think about G, and about my writing, and about everything that’s happened in my family and about everything that’s happened A and K. I want to hear about her music and her boyfriend and her mother and her friends.
Being without her has been strange and evolving but somehow this feels like the last stage: just missing her like a phantom limb and wishing she hadn’t deleted me on Facebook. I’ve forgiven her, but I don’t think things will ever be the same. I don’t regret any of it, but if I could have the Her from this summer back in my life, I would do it in a heartbeat.
your mouth with the force of language,
to have spoken your name at all.
-Greg Watson, from “Now" in The Distance Between Two Hands (March Street Press, 2008)
-Frida Kahlo (via avdotiya)
This is my ultimate favourite(via jerkjunk)
I met a genius on the train
about 6 years old,
he sat beside me
and as the train
ran down along the coast
we came to the ocean
and then he looked at me
Blank journals make me nervous and jumpy, but so does life. Half the time I feel like a store mannequin, getting dressed for a day of silence and careful posing. My arms are tired. Does my ass look fat in this?
I sit in my room and practice not smiling in a mirror. I calculate my flaws and assets like a broker, dare myself to hold my breath while I look in my own eyes. I forget what anxiety feels like until its back again. I forget that it is tangible and solid in my throat. I forget that speaking is hard for reasons other than disinterest. I am queasy.
I write love letters on his back with my finger, weaving loopy cursive. “I miss you when I’m brushing my teeth. I miss you even when I need to hide from you. But I don’t miss you when you’re lying next to me.” I think that’s as close to love as I can get right now. I like to think it’s enough.
I listen to sad music too often and I write about myself too much. Sometimes I ride my panic like a high, feeling lost and selfish and mildly euphoric. I write darker poetry about my father than my rapist. I’m learning not to hate myself for that. Learning.
Blank journals make me woozy and that’s okay. I’m still farther along than I thought I would be. I am prettier than I expected to be. If I had killed myself back then, would I be trapped in the body that made me want to do it? Cain’s curse. Eve’s.
I write down promises to myself so I feel less guilty not following them. I will not cry when I come. I will not read my high school yearbook because inadequacy is a place on the map that feels like home. I will stop slipping under the bathwater and imagining what a deep breath might feel like. I will take pictures of every miracle: his smile; my smile; melting snow.
He tells me there’ll be a Boston Olympics in 2024 and his eyes ask if we will be together to see it. My bones and my blood ask the same question of my body. It’s hard to believe the future doesn’t exist before I live it. It’s hard to believe I can kiss him whenever I want. I hope his mother hates me for his own sake (I am a long and sad and fearful storm) and mine (I crave reassurance that I destroy the things I love). I cry about sad looking women. I cry about crying about sad looking women. I try slipping into the skin of my younger self, but my soul is waterlogged and the old shells fit too tight. I don’t know what I’m looking for, anyway. I’ve never looked beautiful crying.
I hyperventilate until my throat is raw but I still don’t think the bathroom floor is the worst place to find myself. Sometimes healing feels like breaking all over again, sharp and painful in new places, less bearable; but I can always close my eyes. Say it to yourself: a prayer, an oath. I can always close my eyes.
Now, close them.