"I still have a blog."
This thought came in the middle of numerous other ideas. I have a textbook to read, I have a letter to write, I have some chores to do, I have some mindfulness to capture (is that an oxymoron? Perhaps we reserve this for another post).
Yet my heart desires nothing more than to write a few words here, today, four years later and with no intention of catching anyone up on where I have been or what I have done in that time. Let's just talk about today.
Via Barcelonia plays on my phone as I write.
I am mostly comfortable, sitting in a chair that's a bit too hard.
I fiddle with the volume on my phone, the Goldilocks paradox being a daily part of my existence. "Too loud, too quiet, just right."
I broke up with my boyfriend a month ago. I tell myself not to count the days since we broke up, but I know it's 29 days give or take a few (from the day we said goodbye, from the day we stopped texting, who can ever say, and I know it doesn't matter in the end).
I was obsessed with him, he and everyone else knew. I had my reasons for ending it, but even so I was fully prepared to fall madly and deeply into the depths of despair. Those depths have come in waves, crushing and desolate, but I find myself more buoyant than I thought I could be.
I started by making my bed. What does this mean? Back up a bit, the first thing I did was not to make my bed. I rearranged all the furniture in my room, just so my body could forget where he used to sleep next to me. A desperate attempt to grab a life jacket that would bring me back to the surface, from those awful, soul-sucking waves. I couldn't even sleep in that room, I picked a different room in my house and camped out. I swear.
Basically, when I became accustomed to the waves, and noticed that I always came up for air again, I realized that I had it in me to finally change some ingrained thinking patterns that I know are in place only to complicate whatever complex wounds come my way. I have always known about these patterns. They were there before him, and they remained there after him.
So now I am making my bed. What does this mean?
Every single day I go into my room at some point, to find the covers in Jackson Pollock contortions, twisted about in a pile that is cozy but just uninviting. I bawled inconsolably one morning, and then with whatever ounces of strength remained inside of me, I just depressingly made the bed. Blubbering and blue, I took one corner of my blanket up over my pillow, straightened out each other corner in sequence, and then gave it the final pat down of approval. There. Now to make it through this terrible day while my heart patters along behind me, like a toddler crying in protest, just struggling to catch up without collapsing on the floor in gut-wrenching defeat.
Thought nothing of it.
I come home from school that afternoon, head up to my room to change, and...what? What is this feeling? I open the door and the sight before me causes a bubble inside. Something is bubbling up. Could it possibly be joy? Peace? That insatiably sweet combination of those two emotions wrapped into one tender gift? I felt joy-peace. A glimmer of positivity. Which was strongly noticeable given the overwhelming darkness I had grown accustomed to, pre-, during, and post-relationship.
I think it was my neatly made bed.
So day two, wake up, sad sad sad, blue empty awful. The covers met their corners once again.
I have made my bed for three days in a row and already my room, the room I was desperately escaping, the room I have cried in post-breakup and slept in restlessly, feels like a haven.
This is my first significant breakup. I am proud to say that I am a selective date, and there have been few others who grabbed my attention the way he did. I am a loyal and loving woman, and I will put undying effort into something I want to achieve. I wanted to get there with him, he wanted to get there with me, and the reality of losing our dream hurts me deeply. It will probably hurt many more times, somewhere inside of me hurts right now even though my eyes are dry (oh, how I praise the Lord when my eyes are dry), and that hurt is a necessary part of loving and dating.
But my room, as a haven? This is a grand outcome. In the midst of the tsunami, I found the power to create even waters, for whatever moment in time as I look at my fresh bed.
I can't control what happens in my love life, but I can create safe spaces in which to heal, grow, and love myself. I can find positive moments and cling to them as devotedly as I clung to my dreams with him. For the first time in my life, I feel in control. In the healthy way. In the way in which I can survive the waves. In the way in which I can have joy-peace, and then pain, and then joy-peace, and then gut-wrenching defeat.
This was a lot to realize. For now, I am going to go look at my bed.
