Weightless in the afterglow

The best part of the holiday season this year, I am realizing, is that the afterglow — the dying of the tree; the saran wrap you put over your Christmas feast as your last guest is leaving; that moment when snow stops being this magical substance, but just frozen water — is actually the part I relished the most.

I came back home, fresh from the icy biome of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, and I realized, my pain is gone. There is a weight that has been lifted that somehow got flushed away by the cold winds. I realized the last few weeks that my angst over  my past is gone, and what’s left in its place is an acceptance of what happened to me.

For most of my thinking life, I have grasped my pain close to me, like a blanket. I was desperate to retain my anger, thinking it would shield me from this thing called positivity, which was this evil, smug, smiling light that would take my blanket away from me. But in doing this, what I was denying myself was the grace and strength that comes from truly letting things go.

I don’t need to be a sulking martyr who is constantly blaming my past transgressors for my current faults. I am a human, some things have happened to me, but things happen to everybody. What is the point behind letting old wounds fester? All of a sudden, self-acceptance is feeling more natural to me.

As I sat in my morning commute, watching people board and un-board, I felt this innate sense of content; I realize my story is just one in millions. My pain is valid; but it is also heavy. Why did I carry it all with me all these years? By some perfect storm of happenings—all the tears, the unrest, the gut-churning conversations—I feel freer.

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Onomatopeia

Tentative—

What a beautiful, apropos word for my mouth to capture. Even in speaking the word does my tongue perform a dance that lends credence to its meaning; the three delicate t‘s are timid pecks of the tongue to the roof of my mouth, each touch asking a question. Do you want me? Are you with me? Do you understand me? It is then followed by the slow-burn buzz of the v, almost like a love letter to indecision.

Oh, such uncertainty and possibility captured in one lovely word.

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Daily Post prompt: Tentative

Embracing loneliness (a.k.a. ‘self-love’)

I have not been single since I was 17. I am now 25. I acquired my first love—or at least at the time, what I horribly thought was “love”—eight years ago. Since then, I have not stopped. I have not stopped loving or being loved.

The longest I have ever been single is one month. Sadly enough, it may not even count, because in that one month, girl. did. not. get. any. rest. I was blowing off a cloud in one breath and fanning a flame in another.

Oh, but it’s the best preoccupation, isn’t it? This fall into the pit of love, then the inevitable conflict that occurs when two human beings try mushing their lives together. And finally, if it all works out, that satisfying-fall-into-bed-together-at-the-end-of-a-long-day-and-just-talk kind of love. It’s all engrossing stuff.

* * *

I’ve grown up. And I’m still growing up.

Sometimes, I choose not to humor the Blaming Beast, what I call the hateful, martyred creature living in my gut that tells me my feelings of inadequacy are my partner’s fault. Sometimes, I choose not to humor it.

But in other moments I’m not so proud of, it just feels so good to fall into another pit — Insecurity. I fall into it, make myself comfortable, throw pillows and whatnot, and tell myself insipid, self-hating little nothings — that I’m not sexy enough, thrilling enough, ambitious enough. That I’m just some silly little girl who’s not ready to play the Game of Adulthood.

* * *

I have not been single in almost a decade because I am afraid of loneliness. Wow — what an unoriginal predicament. And yet, here I am, my lot thrown in with other loneliness-phobic people who have become almost serial in their romantic activities.

I have not stopped loving or being loved because I cannot love myself.

It’s a weird, cold realization. I have never been enamored with myself. Dear reader, do you know what the definition of “enamor” is?

Enamor (v.):

be filled with a feeling of love for; have a liking or admiration for.

Have I ever been filled with a feeling of love for myself? No, not really. I mean, some good days, I’ll look at my ass and think, daaaaaamn. But obviously, that’s not the same. That’s just vanity.

When I am alone, I feel this itch to rotate around someone else — I am the moon, enamored with the sun; the only revolution I start is around another person, forever reflecting the brighter light of others.

When does love for myself start? What process do I have to sign up for, what paperwork do I have to fill out, to be able to see myself and think, you are truly enough? Because I don’t feel that, and I yearn for it. For once in my life, when I am alone, I want to love it. For once, I want to be the sun.

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Daily Post prompt: Enamored

Have you ever, with a stranger?

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Have you ever fallen in love with a stranger just because?
Caught their eyes, smiled a bit, was intrigued, was surprised?
Have you ever caught the eyes of a stranger just because?
Well, I have — they were yours. And I was mesmerized.

Have you ever talked of life with a stranger just because?
Reminisced, wept out loud, voices cracking in the dark?
Have you ever reminisced with a stranger just because?
Well, I have, with you, my dear, and on me it left a mark.

Have you ever felt the soul of a stranger just because?
Held their pain in your hand, in your head, in your heart?
Have you ever held the pain of a stranger just because?
Well, I have, it was yours — and I simply fell apart.

* * *

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Daily Post prompt: Rhyme