It seems that getting this whole writing thing back up again has severely adjusted my whole being. It’s sort of an uncomfortable comfort – an unwelcome friend that turns into exactly what you’ve been waiting for. Did I have confidence that I’d be back in this place again? Not really, if I’m being honest. But for some reason, I still had hope.
As I’ve mentioned countless times (directly and indirectly) in my recent journal posts, I’ve been on the rocks lately. It’s always been so strange to me how easy it is for some people to get through the things that have clearly wrecked me emotionally, yet I can endure the most unbelievable physical pain like it’s just another item added to the grocery list. I think that what it really boils down to is the fear of the unknown. Since I’ve been sick my whole life, I am no stranger to not-so-average ailments. I have, at 28 years-old, successfully taken myself through a master’s degree education, lived (survived) in 5 different locations outside of my college residence hall and the house I grew up in, and kicked off a fulfilling, well-paid, honorable career – all while seriously considering the proposal of some sort of “frequent flyer” ER incentive due to the amount of visits I’ve had in my adult life,
But this is something that I’ve always kind of had in my corner – the ability to compartmentalize physical discomfort in the face of intellectual success. Yet going through severe heartache is something I’m not as in-tune with. “But Becky, surely you’ve been dumped or disappointed or in-love or confused or hurt or angry or depressed or fill-in-the-blank due to the loss of someone that significantly meant something to you…” Yes, of course I have.
Just never all at once.
Regret is such an insane emotion. People close to me know me well enough by now to understand that I don’t make decisions quickly. As someone ironically pointed out to me recently, living in NYC has proven to afford me the opposite opportunity when making many life changes – apartment hunting having been one of them. By the time you decide you want to weigh your pros and cons about ANYTHING related to a Manhattan lifestyle, somebody else has already scooped up what, for a moment, was the beginning stages of a fleeting thought. Gotta get on it or get out.
But love is not something I play around with. I don’t care how many clocks are ticking or who wants to know the next move, it’s something I’ve always carefully assessed, and thoughfully, and this time was no different. It’s sad that even though the tides have changed for me in some ways, my understanding of what has played out until now has grown into knowing it was absolutely necessary. There are definitely days that make me wish it hadn’t resulted in the hollow way that exists now, (every day), but I think that given the amount of time I let things settle (fester, stew, you get my drift…), I know that if this is where I am, this was my only option. And it’s OK to regret THAT and that alone.
Why this journal makes me feel rejuvinated and alive again, I’m not one-hundred percent sure. I’d like to think that it has something to do with the ability to leave thoughts and ideas that are only in a positive nature, without all of that other noise that creeps into our otherwise strong-minded minds. But maybe, just maybe, it’s seeing that what’s inside of me is now shaping me on the outside as well. And while there’s nothing pretty about it…
I feel beautiful.
The Four Eleven 