This year has been a whirlwind. My medications were dialed in, my therapy was going well enough, and the stress of having someone’s life in my hands was gone. Still. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t enough. My chaotic tornado of thoughts and emotions lived up to its fullest potential. It’s pretty spectacular, really.
Structure and predictability bring me comfort. I like to know what to expect. I like to know what’s expected of me. But once all the other stressors went away and I was left with myself… just me… I didn’t know what to do.
Suddenly, all the the mental prep work I’ve been doing for the past year came to a head. Me questioning the societal standards and arbitrary rules transformed into a feeling of suffocation. I felt like every decision I had ever made was not my own. Those decisions were already made for me; my sexuality, my career, my role in relationships, the way I showed up in the world. I felt like I didn’t know who I really was. All I felt was an empty feeling inside, a hole of loneliness. I felt like a shell of a person, and that somewhere in my subconscious was a little part of me screaming for help. Screaming to be heard. And seen.
What eventually occurred, was me breaking down every aspect of my life. I tore everything down to the ground, to start over. To evolve. To rebuild my life stronger and more authentically. I wanted to be seen, but I also wanted to be comfortable being seen. I was afraid of the very thing I wanted… and it took getting to the point of desperation and feeling like I was going to explode in order to start making changes that felt right for me—not changes I thought I was expected to make, or that I thought others wanted me to make.
But. Once all of the pieces of my life were strewn about, I had no idea how I was going to put them back together. At first it was exciting! I could create anything I wanted. I could explore, I could work by trial and error, I could use my imagination! All of the adrenaline of the chaos was an adventure. I even turned it into an actual adventure, proving to myself that I was not a purely dependent and generally useless person.
I went on a road trip. For the first leg of my trip I drove three days straight, alone in my car, for hours on end. It was easy. I felt good. I enjoyed being my own company. I enjoyed being alone. I visited family in two different states before slowly making my way back home. I stood on a mountain overlook in Zion National Park, not another person around. I stood with the trees, wind blowing away everything that no longer served me. The sun warming my face in the company of the birds. Looking out over the valleys of trees and the rocky sides of mountains, I felt powerful. I felt supported. I felt like I had found clarity. “I am not weak”, I told myself. “I am not indecisive. I know exactly who I am. And I’m ok.”
It was an amazing experience that kept me afloat all the way back… back to my home, and back to every bit of my life that I had left in shambles. The broken pieces were still there, and they were a bit overwhelming.
Since I’ve been back, I have felt heavy emotions on all ends of the spectrum. As I try to strip away the remnants of old thought patterns and toxic attachments, I feel proud of how much I’ve grown. I feel thankful for the new perspectives and insights that have come into my life. I feel like I’m evolving… and then… there’s always something that humbles me right back down. A toxic thought creeps back in. I spend a day crying in bed with immense sadness. I feel guilt or shame for past transgressions. One day I feel calm and grounded and secure… and the next day I’m anxious and needy and feel like a mess of a human. I feel like I don’t know what I’m doing. I feel like I’ve been caught in my own tornado and I don’t know which way is up.
Be vulnerable, or get hurt. It’s an interesting phrase. One might argue that vulnerability in itself is painful. At least, it has the potential to be. If I’m not vulnerable, if I’m closed off or emotionally unavailable, I run the risk of getting hurt. I might miss an opportunity or cause someone else pain that they’re not able to reconcile. I’d feel guilt. Perhaps shame. Anxiety, sadness.
But what if I am vulnerable? What if I am emotionally available and invested? What if I attach myself to someone who decides that my vulnerability, or my capacity to be vulnerable, open, and an engaged human is not enough?
What if I try and fail?
Is it better to be guarded and hurt? Or is it better to try, to trust, and to take steps into the open and still get hurt? I suppose, for me, for the sake of my journey and my growth as an empathetic and compassionate human… I’d rather Be Vulnerable AND Get Hurt.
Lunar Lilies 