An Immigrant Heart That Keeps Trying To Get Back Home

Upstairs, I can hear my only child and his lady every now and then. They wake up for food and to go to work and school. Sometimes together. They both work so hard. I like her. She's lovely and has these sharp little eyes. She's sweet and she loves him. I know the look of love and she has it.

I woke up this morning so much before the alarm that I think I really must be turning into my father, with my hands shaking so hard that I could barely hold my coffee cup. I don't think it's that kind of shake. But it's enough to make myself wonder. Strung out from last night and the tide brought back in, crashing down on me all night and finally washing back out today, I think. Always ocean water. Hopefully not like that riptide. Let it be more gentle this time around.

I keep telling myself to just stand up. It's a tide pool. I'm only drowning because I laid down in this. All of it. Not the quiet, glorious solitude I love so much. Not that at all. "Like a crop fire raging / And it's taking everything you've sown." Feels like their isn't a damn thing I can do but wait for my legs to get under me. And they will eventually. Let's see if I'm burned to cinders or some pathetic Ophelia first.

But it's more than water. It's more than drowning. There is some beauty in this feeling that I can't quite control. It's hope. It's a possibility. It's something to look forward to. It's kindness and encouragement and deep conversations and all of my favorite songs and pink bubbles and breakfast. It's my locket on the nightstand and a painting over the bed. It's a temporary getaway and pizza and the chill breeze on the balcony and waking up feeling peace. All of these things because I let the water wash over me for the first time in years instead of backing away as the foam drew too near. I don't know what's next and as unlike me as this is, I'm okay with it. You can't control the tide. It's small comforts until a greater one comes along or these small ones become so that they are greater. Greatness and gratitude.

I've realized that the moment I stop writing, I can't anymore. And I would rather die than lose that. I'm not sure how much of these several months I'll ever publish. Maybe one day. I've been sitting around stewing in my own thoughts for a week or so. That's really healthy. The long hikes are helping. You can't think too hard if you can't breathe. Let's see if my body can hold up to what my mind is doing to it. A long hike Sunday, a blistering workout last night, followed by another night of shit sleep, and I am just wrecked. Knee, shoulder, heart. You can't just ignore something and pretend it isn't there. You can, but you'll end up in my present headspace eventually. One star, do not recommend. And they don't lie when they say the body keeps score.

I'm wearing my daddy's locket almost all the time now. I've been sleeping in it and I have never done that in twenty-two years. I need him close to me right now. I need him right now. Right beside the necklace my sister gave me what seems like a lifetime ago. Hers says "Love you" and mine says "Love you more." I never thought about it at the time, but it's my reminder to do my best to always give more than I take. And I try so hard.

I keep going to the gym, keep trying to be mindful of what I eat and mindful of how much I'm drinking. I wear my sunscreen every day and drink my water. Why I keep taking my meds and going to therapy (remembered to call and make sure a prescription is ready for me at the pharmacy). Keep checking in with my body to remind myself to relax all those muscles that got me all messed up before and to breathe and to see if she needs anything. Keep reaching out and trying to be a good, supportive friend (remembered to text a spectacular human after the death of her father just now). All of this writing helps me in so many ways. I just have to be extra-careful that it doesn't harm me. That post trauma nonsense has me all fucked up.

Sitting here just now, the idea for the novel I will write came to me, fully-formed. I never had the idea until just now. I knew how the format would come out and I knew what perspective I'd need, but it took me to here to put it all together. All of this is why. Or maybe the the book is the why for all of this. The universe, she be taking me to task in so many ways these days. But she also keeps bringing magic to lay at my feet. To wash them. She loves me, I just needed a little brutality.

I just can't quite get myself to be perfectly reasonable right now. And I hate myself for that. It's a tough place for me. Even more right now when what has led me here to this point over the past couple of years isn't how I feel, but cold reason. I've had to drain all the blood from my heart to survive. And I took a long time to do that for myself. I had to. And now I feel like I'm filling up again and it's like feeling your hands come back to life after frostbite. It sucks. But I will not let my feelings run my life or ruin my life. I will feel them, but I will also name them and fight them, windmills or not.

Introspection. I've always had a gift for that. A woman I respect deeply and love to my core told me that I'm very self-aware at a young age. I can tell you it feels like a long time, but I guess when it's your forever, it does seem long.

I've had two very hard conversations this week. Hard hard hard. One on Sunday. Oh, that one was so hard. And the person I would usually go tell about it is the other person I had to have a hard talk with. I will say that after that hike and after that talk, I feel...well, frankly I feel like I've let out a story I have carried away for twenty-five years with all of its significance. And I did it in the name of someone else. Love makes me a brave motherfucker. Stronger than I am. More than I am.

This week, I've had women I love and admire say that I am strong, thoughtful, kind, wise. Those are truly the best conversations of my week. My heart needs the reminders that my character is intact and improving. I'm working so hard.

The strangest thing I can remember recently is that someone read my blog post about Jay. I get the feeling they knew us both. I get the feeling it's someone I know well. But the comment was anonymous. I think I understand how it feels to write something that strangers read now. Something your friends read whether you know it or not. Your mom. That guy you want to go out with. The one you marry. Then divorce. I wish I could pinpoint who it is. But I think that's half the point of writing. You never know who reads it. But that doesn't matter. You don't do it for anyone in particular. You do it mostly for yourself and some for that person out there that relates. That person who finds themselves in your clumsy words.

It's funny, I do the best of my eating and sleeping at my sister's house. I think the kids and taking care of her just keeps my mind occupied enough that my body just kind of does what it wants. And I like being useful. I like being needed. I'm going back there tomorrow after work. She's at work today and will have the kids tonight and in the morning by herself. I know that will be hard. And I hate it. And I feel guilty. I had plans to see a movie tonight that I had put off thinking I'd be seeing it with someone else. Schedules are a pain in the ass. Meetings tomorrow that I put off from two weeks ago. I can't keep deflecting. And also, three days is about all I got in me. Those hours are not my hours.

I am tired. But I am also resilient and strong. I am so tired of having to be strong. I need the match to my mule so the team does what its intended. A yoke together, more than the sum of its parts. I think the opposite of strong isn't weak. I don't think I'll ever be that. I think the opposite of strong is soft and fucking hell, I want to be soft for a while. Just have someone else hold a few things for a moment. I'll return that favor. Time and again I'll return it. I am so accustomed to holding it all and my shoulders are small. Maybe the same water that crushes me can save me.