progression

Four Saturdays ago, I decided that was it.

It.

I’d had enough. Through and through, I had exhausted my resources. There wasn’t another smidgen of anything inside of me that could make it work. That could make anything work. I could pull nothing out of my center that would help me to function there. And so I decided that was it.

And so I left. I left “home.”

A few choice words stayed behind. A few precious belongings didn’t. I packed a couple bags, made some arrangements, and fled. I fled. Faster than anyone could have called out to me, “Mend my life!” and I was gone.

I had a center just then, a real live center and I felt it. Something erupted inside of me and before I could even think to take anything back, it all came out.

And it felt damn good when I let it all out.

I finally gave it the okay. I told it to go ahead, do what it will, we don’t have any other resources left, anyways. And it toppled out of my center and out of my heart and up out of my mouth and it was there, for all to see.

Strangely enough, I didn’t feel like I had lost anything. Times before, I’d wish for the words and feelings to come back, I didn’t really mean them, I should have thought first, I should have stayed level-headed and calmed down before I spoke. I had lost a piece of myself and I didn’t really want him to have it and now it was too late. Those were the times before.

This time, this time, it was different. My center released it all, right on cue. Perhaps it released quite a build-up, actually. That’s okay. I didn’t mind. I didn’t want to gather up all my sentiments and choke them back down and stuff them back in for fear of losing myself to someone else. I really didn’t, this time. They are mine, and I am owning them.

Now, now I’m in a new place. Now that the needed words and sentiments have come out, the rest are for me. Mine to keep. Mine to nurture and explore and love. I’m learning to stay centered and to focus my energies on myself, instead of directing them away negatively and uselessly. I’m done with that. I won’t have any of that. I’ve gone back to that bonding time and time again, only to fail. I’m done with failing.

For three weeks I was gone. For three weeks I slept on a futon (one that used to belong to me in college that I had since bequeathed to a friend—I thought it rather appropriate and ironic). I stopped at home on occasion at particular times of day to gather and return a few things. I lived out of my bags. I cooked my own food. I lived according to my own schedule. It was exhilarating, and a fantastic first step, but also made me feel like I could vomit at any given time of day. Not good.

So I returned home. Tight lipped, perhaps, but open hearted. My heart is open to myself. I’m only concerned with myself now. I used to think the word for that was called “selfish.” Now I realize the word is “smart.” Smart, to care for yourself. Smart, to realize that you cannot change others, that change has to come from within. Smart, to be concerned about your own well-being and mental health. Smart, to realize that efforts put forth to help other people are futile unless you can help yourself first.

The past month has been difficult. And exhausting. And I’m afraid this is only the very first step. Healing takes a long time. Twenty-two years is a long thing to reverse. But before I can reverse I need to stop.


So far, that’s been the hardest part.