But I cannot focus.
I went through all the pre-writing rituals. My room is nice and clean, I have made my tea, my candle is lit, I am comfy and safe and I have nowhere else to be, nothing else to do.
But I cannot focus.
This is a theme lately. I cannot get through a movie or even an episode. Whenever I try to read a book, my fingers itch. And writing what I am supposed to be writing– because I do have two deadlines coming up, actually– evades me. I cannot get lost even in my own stories right now.
All I can think about is this. And I just want to be here, vomiting up my own guts. I think perhaps that I have to get it all out of my system before I can move forward, before I can re-commit to my play, even to my silly fanfiction. (Again, I legitimately have a deadline.)
My therapist reminded me today that I am accustomed to operating at a high threshold of pain. She said it for the first time last summer, and the idea broke my entire goddamn brain.
I write this tonight not to be overly dramatic, not to make you worry about me, not to make you feel sorry for me… Like, allow me to preface: I am “fine.”
I am in a lot of pain. I am sitting on my soft pink unicorn sheets, and I have good, warm Sleepytime Vanilla tea, and Waddles is beside me, and I am “okay,” but also: I am in pain. I write this tonight, because I am fucking furious about this whole situation, and because I need to do my part to normalize this. Mental illness is exhausting, and it is physically painful, and everyone should know that, okay?
Trauma comes in a lot of different flavors, and yours is as valid and harrowing as mine is. Because I am calling this for what it is, and I am grateful to my therapist for helping me get there: the last two months of my life have been traumatic. I have been lowkey having a panic attack since December. Coming out, leaving my job, leaving my relationship, moving…. these are each of them huge stressors, and I basically did all of mine at the same time.
(Once again, I am “fine.” I am going to be okay, I promise.)
When I was 18, I entered into what I thought was going to be The Great Love Story of my life. And I have felt like a failure over that relationship ending for over a decade. I have carried that pain, I have believed that everything was my fault (Spoiler alert: when one of you is 18, and the other is 30, it’s usually not the teenager’s fault.), I have believed that I was a burden, because I believed all the things they told me.
And one of my best friends changed my life this summer when she said, so calmly, “I’ll always think of him as your abuser.”
And that fucking hurts, and I am angry that it is so much later and that I am still dealing with this pain, and I am angry at myself for not realizing it, and I just want to hide under the bed until I sort through all this shit, and then maybe I will finally finally re-emerge in a blaze of queer, confident, glorious glory.
But NOPE. APPARENTLY, THIS NONSENSE TAKES TIME.
This is a PROCESS, and I hate it. There is not going to be A DAY wherein I am “fixed.” I’m just going to keep taking the tiniest, teeniest little steps forward, and sometimes I’m going to have a meltdown and run miles backwards, and sometimes I am going to curl up into a ball and screw my eyes shut and will everything to fucking STOP.
Because this shit hurts.
I’m tired. Even my Pep Talk voice is kind of a dick right now: “Yo! Idiot! If we go get you that fucking latte, will you stop crying for, like, an hour? Great. Moron.”
Still, though. There is still this tiny, faint, trembling little voice underneath everything else. And I am a giant nerd, so that voice is a blend of Luke, of Leia, of Kermit, of Hagrid, (because fuck you, Dumbledore)…
This little voice that says, “You did not do anything wrong. This is not a divine punishment. You will be okay.”
Okay without quotation marks.
And speaking of okay, I am accepting that it is okay that all I want to do lately is word-vomit on this blog. I know you’re out there, and you make me feel brave, and so I want to talk about this all of the time, because I don’t want anyone else to ever feel alone in this. I don’t want anyone else to feel like they have to downplay the experience of their own pain in order to fit in, in order to be worthy, in order to be loved.
You are enough, exactly as you are. Your pain does not define you. I know how hard this is to accept, but, even in your saddest, most terrible moments, you are good and whole. There is nothing lacking in you. One day we will both believe it, I think.
Drink your tea, dear heart. We’ll try again tomorrow.