Hi again. It’s been a while. Ten years to be exact. Ten years since I wrote my first post on this blog and poured my heart out onto the page. I was overflowing with pain and sadness and fear and needed to put it somewhere. I needed to scream to others THIS HURTS so that I could find some relief. There was nowhere else for the emotions to go. I felt like a jar that was bursting with so many feelings that if I didn’t say anything, it would explode and glass would shatter everywhere.
I haven’t written in a while. I think it’s because I haven’t felt in a while. Not in that way. I’ve felt many things. But none at the volume I felt back then. Not even close. The pain was so big and I was so terrified of surviving that I ran as fast as I could. Ran away from the hurt. Ran towards making a new life because the one I knew had just disappeared. What’s crazy as I look back now is how I surely knew in my bones it was disappearing but I could’ve never guessed how far away it would be. I knew I’d lost my best friend. My rock. My idol. My running partner. My backgammon opponent. My dad. And that was enough to make me sprint. Scramble. Distract. Try to get my feet somewhere sturdy so that I didn’t melt into the hole that had just been created in my foundation. But I had no idea how much more loss was to come. How many worlds would end. How many doors would shut. How many places would disappear.
When I think of the girl who screamed her words to you ten years ago, I’m proud of her. She was so scared. I want to hug her. To tell her it’s ok. Tell her things are gonna get worse before they get better. That they won’t get better in the same way. That the soft, squishy parts of her were not going to fully return. That the home she’d relied on was on borrowed time. That the voice inside her head that told her everything would be alright would quiet. That the sense of bone resting, full body exhaling, crawling into the couch comfort would not be accessible to her in the same way again. I would want to tell her that the world was big and waiting. That stepping into it would mean stepping out of a place she belonged. That a full heart would come at the cost of a broken one. That she would not go back. Things would not go back. Life would not go back. There was no back. As much as she would fight and cling and grasp, her arms would eventually give out.
I’d tell her that she’d get lost more often than she’d feel found and she’d try more often than she’d succeed. But I’d tell her that she stands on two feet. On the other side of the country. On the other side of a decade. On wearier bones. On stronger legs. I’d tell her that the depth of pain drove her to find greater depths of love. Of friends. Of community. That most days she bounces through life without thinking about the life she had to abandon. That the loss was met with equal amounts of gain. That every day since, she’s been aware of the fragility of life and tried to act as such. That lots of that sprinting came from a place of joy. Of gratitude that her time wasn’t up yet.
That like her dad, and thanks to him, she fit a lot of time into that time. She made big jumps and didn’t look down when she was scared. That she has a carpeted den and decorative towels. She hands out candy on Halloween. She sends her friends home with leftovers after she’s cooked dinner with real courses that aren’t pop chips and hummus. That she makes decisions with her gut. That she knows who she is. She goes where it’s warm. She has routines and traditions and greys. She’s a woman. I’d tell her she’s alright. I think I know what she’d tell me.
I lost my yia-yia’s cross yesterday. It fell off my neck at some point in my day and I scrambled to find it. I searched everywhere. I drove to every place I’d been and in the pitch dark, I scoured sidewalks. I couldn’t find it. And I cried. I heaved. I curled in a ball and I wept like a child. I wanted that necklace. It was something I couldn’t get back. And I’d lost it. I couldn’t handle it. I cried like I haven’t in years. I cried for the lost necklace, for the lost years, for the lost parent I’ve spent a decade missing.
I cried so hard I remembered. I remembered the girl who wrote these blogs. I remembered the way she was vulnerable. And open. I remembered how far down her walls were. How loudly she cried to herself, how loudly she cried to her friends, how loudly she cried to you. Strangers. I remembered her. And as much as she needed me to tell her she is going to be alright, I needed her last night. She found me. Necklace lost, eleven at night, knees buckling, weeping. She was reminding me it’s ok. It’s alright to cry, to be vulnerable, to be open and to have so many emotions coming out of my body that I had to let them out. She reminded me that she’s still there, inside of me.
I’d run so long I forgot I was running. And last night, as I watched a cockroach scurry across the sidewalk while frantically looking for a piece of metal, I ran out of breath. I threw up the white flag. I’d run as far as I could. And ten years ago me was waiting there. Thanking me for getting us safe. Holding her arms out to me. Reminding me that we can stop. We can rest. We can cry. We can remember. It was good to see her. I hope she was happy to see me. I look forward to seeing her again. I hope it doesn’t take as long.