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.