Past Life
I mourn for my past. There’s a specific kind of grief that happens when you change. Growth is never easy. The outcome, I can say with confidence, is better than where you came from. You may get even one day of waking up with a clear mind, but I bet most people don’t even get that. Generally, it’s most likely only a little bit easier to get through the day. I still experience all of the default programming at hyper-speed, but I can recognize it as a harmful auto-pilot. Awareness has been my key to freedom. But freedom always feels so far away
It doesn’t prevent me from experiencing sadness. It doesn’t make me forget all of the people I met but could not connect with because I was not capable of holding a conversation with someone. I could hear all of the words that they spoke, but they morphed together into one big sound. Layered on top of one another until I could no longer make out what the point of the sentence was.
“Yes,” I would say, and nod my head. Smile. Just to end the conversation. Because there was nothing for me to add.
Sinead O’Connor taught me that remembering and grief go hand-in-hand. The only way to see the past, truly, for what it is, is to feel the loss of what was. I suppose in most situations, grief happens for happy memories. But not always. I remember all the people I was too afraid to meet. Too afraid to talk to. I remember the people I spoke to but could not understand. Because their words were only a sound. Grief can happen for fear. Grief can happen for relief.
My sadness is not because those moments are gone, but more centered around the fact that they exist. I wonder who would I have become if I had been able to be full. Who would I have allowed myself to take the shape of? Would I have grown so tall and big that everyone would have recognized me? Would the whole world know me?
I think about who would have been my friend if I could have taken up the space. What conversations would I have had? What people would I have met and what life would I have lived? Who would have loved me and who would I have loved? What spaces would I enter supported by the warm embrace that I feel now, from other people, from myself, from the world?
… If I hadn’t met you.
My life right now is very different. I am still trying to piece together what gifts I was given during this other life that doesn’t involve bringing me to where I am now. But I guess that is always the point. You were never trying to give me anything. I’m just trying to make sense of how life can feel so complete, so beautiful, so in sync, when I spent all of these years, even after I left, struggling to exist. Because it was a struggle.
And although you were part of it, I don’t blame you. That was the way I navigated through the world, and you were only a mirror. An enabler. A supporter. Someone who thrived off of my smallness. We shared the same goal - to make me disappear.
No, the only argument that I need to have is with myself. I will pull up a chair in front of the mirror. Sit down backward, set my arms on the back-rest, rest my head in my hands, and stare at my eyes. I’ll tell myself that, “It’s all your fault.”
Because isn’t that how I really feel?
Isn’t that how we all feel?
That you are the driver of your destiny, even when someone rips it out of your hands. You’re bloody and cold, naked even, but it was still your fault for walking into that hotel room. It was still your fault for getting into that bed. And it was still your fault for not speaking loud enough, not breathing loud enough, not screaming loud enough.
But you couldn’t even open your eyes.
They were sewn shut.
There was nothing that you could have done. Your hands were tied. Your feet were burned. There wasn’t anywhere to run. Who would want to fight him? Not you. Not you then, and not you now.
All you want to do is hide. Run away. Stop the noise. Pause the conversation. Close the door. Find the exit. Turn the music off. Pull the covers over your head. Drive for miles. Move to a new city. Walk quickly with your head down. Nod. Smile. Just to end the conversation.
It all makes sense. I was never putting on an act or pretending or making something bigger than it actually was. The fear was just that big. And now that it’s smaller, that you’re smaller, I can hear other people when they speak to me. I can participate in life in a bigger way than I used to. I can feel, for the first time, actual joy from being around other humans. That joy translates right into love, as they go hand-in-hand. And I can remember, grieve, love, and joy all at the same time. Just a little bit closer to freedom. Just a little bit easier to get through the day.