I wrote this post (I invite you to read it for context) nearly three years ago, but I can picture the day clearly, as if no time has passed at all. My sadness was so strong I did what I hardly ever do – I sought time just for myself so that I could feel what I wanted to feel unabashedly and without spectators. It was a culmination of exhaustion, resignation, and some stark realizations. I psychoanalyzed the shit out of myself and the decisions that had led me to that moment and it hurt.
To be clear, however – though that pain is sharply vivid, I hardly feel the pain of that day in my everyday life now. It may flare up on occasion, but it’s so much easier to acknowledge it, talk through it, and put it back to a state of rest. It’s like an out-of-body experience, where I can see it but can’t relate to it. I can only watch. I do wish I could interject and offer Jax-of-then some comfort and reassurance.
Someone recently told me they considered me to be strong, and they couldn’t wait to get to this point in my emotional stability. I had to clarify – it has taken a lot of time, ugly cries, temper tantrums and therapy copays to get here. I sometimes don’t feel strong at all and wouldn’t think twice at hiding under my bed for a quick time out.
But I go back to that post and realize that it hasn’t been the time, nor any distance, nor the bottomless sangria that got me through. At the end of the day, when I cried like a baby in the Barnes & Noble parking lot and then ruined my chanclas as I walked through a muddy Slater Park, I made a promise: I would never feel like that again. I would never allow it. I refuse.
May I be sentenced to damnation for 1000 years before I do.