Tomorrow is my birthday and I am on the cusp of things.
I fell into it in a complicated way to begin with. Woke up holding someone I was only holding to block myself from another someone; A someone I was trying desperately not to love nor hate. I looked down at my hands and couldn’t tell the difference between accidental paper cuts and anxious finger biting.
Spring melted in and I left New York City for home. Then I left the country. And when I came back, I left the boy that was shielding me, in hopes of something more- and I ended up with even less. I turned my back and got a shiver of panic at the once terrifying feeling of being alone. So I danced around in the growing heat and found someone who had all the right friends and all the wrong traumas. I was shut out and he was dramatic and I was drunk and left smelling of fireworks and heartache on the Fourth of July.
Many let-downs later; many parking lots later; many drinks, moments, angry messages and sobs later, it was mid-summer and I was alone. I severed myself from everything and everyone I knew. I spent most of my time in my car. I drove it a lot. I drove until I got lost. I drove until the red and white car lights smeared together. I had never before wanted so badly to not exist. I left behind the burdens; I left behind the friends that weren’t really friends; I left behind the roads that contained my histories, memories and regrets that I spent too much time walking down; I left behind everything, including my ability to feel anything at all and it was beautiful.
I went back to the only place that made me feel as awful and empty as I felt that summer. I spoke to a boy who’s conversation I enjoyed- who knew the anger and the solitude all too well. Met new friends. Got drunk often. Walked home by myself at 3 A.M. to find I was never quite alone. I accepted things I was afraid to admit to myself. I found your apology in my inbox. I spent time tossing and turning. I spent time sleeping. I spent time scribbling poetry on pieces of paper that eventually filled my pockets and purses. I began talking with my hands again.
Winter came without warning and I felt an old feeling tingling in my toes. I wanted to open all doors and let change flood the floor. But I couldn’t and I can’t. My heart remained in limbo. I said goodbye to New York City and set my sights elsewhere. I moved to Philadelphia. Made my apartment a home. Met incredible, whole people. I started classes and loved them- art became like breathing again.
Now I spend most of my time laying on floors. I spend it drunk. I spend it writing. I spend it listening to my neighbor’s noisy garage door. I spend it wondering if the hundreds of open windows across the way can see me naked when I get out of the shower- then I realize that I don’t care anyway. I spend my time growing.