12-29-22

I’ve learned a lot since August. I’ve learned that I can drive unfamiliar places in the dark, and the rain, and not get as rattled as I used to. I’ve learned that I can be “off” my schedule for a few days and not get sick or have a panic attack. I’ve learned that I can speak up for myself at my place of work, and regardless of the actual outcome, feel empowered and strong. I’ve learned that I can ride in a rickety bus for twenty minutes and not get carsick. I’ve learned that I can pick up tap dance easy-peasy after almost ten years hiatus. I’ve learned that I actually am healing, getting stronger, braver, even when it feels like I’m backsliding. I’ve learned that I’m a lover, and that I have no small feelings.

I’ve learned that the numb feeling I sometimes get happens when my body and mind are trying to protect me from the emotions that feel life-threatening.

I stand outside in the balmy fifty-eight degree evening, admiring the new garage light my dad installed, on account of the previous owner’s choice of carriage lanterns he so strongly disliked. The night is achingly beautiful, and as always, everything in me screams Don’t leave, it’s not safe out there. Who will protect you? You can’t do this on your own. Every atom in me wants to obey the siren call of the familiar.

The moon is a white crescent accented by fluffy grey clouds in the dusk light. A lone star sits to the right. It was six degrees below zero a week ago. A week ago, I thought I was returning to my intact apartment, and even then I dreaded going back. Now it feels like I’m being pushed off the edge of where the sidewalk ends.

Earlier I sat curled at the bottom of the staircase, crying until I saw stars and lost my voice.

“These aren’t just from your apartment.” my mom states more than asks, of my unending tears.

No, I think this is the universe, channeling every single sorrow that has ever occurred in its realm, through my heart chakra.

I tell my mom that I don’t think I will ever get to the end of the sadness inside of me, never cry through the well of tears.

“You will,” she counters, “And you will find hope at the bottom.”

Everything is too tender: the sound of my parents’ voices in other rooms, the music coming from the living room speakers, the panorama of Venice that used to hang in our old kitchen, the last dinner we’ll have together for months.

It burns like a branding tool searing scars on my heart.

Why am I so shaken by seeing a bit of floor and wall torn up in my out-of-state abode? I ruminate on this question as I walk back inside to the house I’ve spent exactly six weeks in, yet which feels ten-million times as safe and familiar as the apartment I’ve lived in for three and a half years.

All day, time has been slipping through my fingers. I sit by the tinseled tree and listen to Christmas music, my heart breaking over the fact that I have to leave tomorrow. And yet, no one is making me do anything. I am as free as a bird. Why do I not want to go, if it has always been my choice all along? I feel forced against my will into discomfort.

But I have this sneaking suspicion that I wouldn’t have learned half as much if I hadn’t left the comfort and safety of the familiar. I fly back tomorrow, into the ocean of the unknown.