The Sparkle

A message from a friend this morning:
"I noticed in the pictures you've taken recently your eyes seem to have more life in them. Like there's more of a sparkle and happiness that they didn't seem to have for so long."

I looked at the picture I posted from yesterday that she was referring to. After finishing my last final, a friend and I had an impromptu leaf fight/photo shoot outside of the building. It was ridiculous, but special. I saw all of the crispy, fall leaves (it's December, but hey, I live in California) coating the ground and I had an overwhelming urge to play in them. So I did.

My life has been a lot like that recently. I get a pull in my heart to do something, so I do it. Whether that means throwing a bunch of leaves with a friend, chasing a sunset to the beach, or giving myself permission to stay in bed all day long to read. I do all of these things without second guessing. I figure that if my heart wants something, it's for a reason. Maybe I don't know why, but I figure that's not the point. The why comes later; the importance lies in the now.

I believe living this way is the reason the sparkle has started to return to my eyes. Trying to understand how I got to this point, I reread one of the poems I wrote back in August called "Recent Photographs." In it, I talked about the light in my eyes that had dulled. No matter who I was with or what we were doing, my eyes appeared somewhat lifeless. But when I wrote that poem, I knew that that shimmer hadn't died out; there was still hope. I didn't know when this hope would start resurfacing in my gaze, but I believed it was in there. And now, I think it finally has started to emerge.

This transition started with me finally "Facing Mirrors". I don't feel ugly anymore, like I did for the first six months, but I'm not quite at the stage of feeling beautiful again. Blake really made me feel beautiful, every single moment of every single day. It's amazing how a person can do that for you. And it's incredibly hard not knowing how to get that confidence back. I look back on the pictures of a girl so obviously in love with the man next to her and I revel at my beauty. I looked so wonderful... I want to look wonderful again someday.

And I will, beginning with the sparkle. A sparkle in my eyes that shows my love for the world and the experiences I'm lucky to be a part of. Seeing every moment of every day as an opportunity to learn, grow, and take it all in. To read incredible books, chase sunsets, and play with leaves. I will be beautiful again, once I realize that I have been beautiful all along.

Detroit Hyena

Since Blake's death, I've tested out hundreds of ways to cope. The most controversial of which has been befriending a heroin addict in Detroit. Five months ago, in a strange mixture of compulsive interest and morbid curiosity, I looked up "#heroin" on Instagram. What I found shocked, terrified, and intrigued me all at the same time. With one simple search I was given unlimited access into a private world. From the safety of my bedroom I got an intimate look into the lives of people who share their drug use through pictures. It was all there: everything I read about, but had never been exposed to.

There was one person's profile that I kept coming back to. She seemed to take pride in her drug use and the scars it left on her body and life. She was so open, honest, and unashamed. But as much as it scared me to see her photos, I could sense a goodness in her. While looking through her profile I felt a magnetic connection to her that can only be explained by fate. 

A week or two into my secret fascination with her account, I finally decided to make contact. What started out as a simple question turned into several comments back and fourth. Then emails. Then texts. I explained how my boyfriend died from a heroin addiction I knew nothing about and she detailed her 15 year-long battle with the same drug. We listened to each other, cried together, helped each other reach a new level of understanding. We made an unspoken commitment to leave judgment at the door and support each other unconditionally.

In the five months since we became friends, Hyena has committed to sobriety and relapsed several times. And on a night I'll never forget, she talked to me during her suicide attempt as I desperately tried to remind her how much she had left to teach the world. And to teach me. Her story was far from pretty, but I've always been convinced that she deserved a happy ending. Through it all, I held the hope that deep down she believed she deserved one too.

  

Detroit Hyena is now 27 days sober. Although her other attempts at sobriety have ended in using again, I know it's different this time. I know this because everything about her is different this time. 

I feel different too. In an unexplainable way, from across the country and with completely different life struggles, I feel like she and I have made this journey together. When I look at her only one word comes to mind: metamorphosis. It's been an incredibly gruesome past few months, but through the turmoil I believe there's been somewhat of a rebirth, for her and for me. 

Through Hyena, an unknown junkie from Detroit posting pictures on the internet, I learned that kind questions grounded in a desire to understand are the passageway to greater awareness. An awareness about those who are different than you and, more importantly, about yourself. I am forever grateful for the day that the strange mixture of compulsive interest and morbid curiosity lead me to her. I told her before, "I don't always support your choices, but I will always support you." And now, with incredible pride and love, I can finally say I support both.

Congratulations on your 27 days, Detroit Hyena. Here's to 27 and forever more.

Here's the link to her blog. She's an incredible writer: http://detroithyena.blogspot.com/

Facing Mirrors

I went through the majority of the past six months avoiding mirrors. Seeing my eyes felt too intimate. If I ever looked, I'd have to search inside of them. And when I did, I saw sadness, fear, but most upsetting of all, I saw a stranger. I didn't know this girl and honestly, I didn't like her.

I very rarely wore makeup. But when I did, I silently cursed at my reflection the whole time I was applying it. I had always prided myself on having great skin, but the face in front of me had blemishes all over. Maybe it was the stress. Maybe it was the lack of sleep. But most likely, it was because I stopped caring about myself. I gave up on this new person I had become.

As a birthday present, my best friend bought me the book "The Bridges of Madison County". When I was in New York over Thanksgiving, I read it and highlighted some of the lines that spoke to me. One part that immediately caught my attention was when Francesca was looking at an old photograph that her lost love, Robert, had taken of her:

"She looked at the picture again, studied it. I did look good, she thought, smiling to herself at the mild self-admiration. 'I never looked that good before or after. It was him.'"

I've done the same, countless times. My smile never looked bigger, or brighter, or more genuine than in my pictures with Blake. I look at those old photographs and I see the Briana I was, the Briana I wish so desperately that I could be again. But I can't. I can never be her because she died with Blake. It's frustrating to realize that now that he's gone, I will never be the same again. I've mulled it over a million times and it never gets easier to wrap my mind around. I realized that maybe I didn't want to face myself in the mirror because I didn't know who I was without Blake.

But since coming back from New York, I caught myself looking in the mirror for the first time. As I brushed my teeth this morning, my eyes lingered on their reflection staring back at them. I wasn't ready to search them yet, so I scanned the rest of my face first. I immediately noticed that my skin had finally cleared up. I smiled. My nose was still slightly crooked, my teeth still "she definitely had braces" straight. My face was oval, just like my sister's, my cheekbones high, like my mom's. My face wasn't perfect, but it looked familiar. I liked what I saw. With a deep breath, I worked my way up to my eyes. When I fixed my stare, I poured myself into them, searching for a glimpse of the girl I used to be. But I was right, she wasn't there anymore.

What I did find, however, was something new. I had to strain my neck to get a closer look, barely an inch from the mirror to make sure. There it was. Almost completely hidden by the lower lashes of my left eye was a tiny, new freckle.

Freckles have always been important to me. I only have about ten, so I know exactly where all of them are. One of my favorite memories with Blake, which I shared in our video, was the night we discovered that he had a freckle in the exact same spot as me on his shoulder. He called them our "Twin Freckles" because they connected us and made us one. Maybe this new freckle, under my eye (I), symbolized a new journey focused on just me. To show me I'm different, but still beautiful.

This morning, the addition of the 11th freckle reminded that I am a new person. Although that feels scary and makes me want to run and hide from myself sometimes, it's the truth. I'm not sure if being a new person is good or bad, but it's reality. A reality that's mine and can't be avoided. I need to nurture this new person and learn to love her just as much as I loved the Briana from the photographs with Blake. Who knows, maybe I can grow to love her even more.

Thanksgiving / Six Months

The sunlight shocked open my eyelids and pushed me to face the morning. Seven AM wasn't my friend. Perhaps because Four AM and I had grown to know each other so intimately. Four AM was comforting to me in all of his dark and quiet anxiousness. In that time of night, the silent hum of unspoken fears wrapped around me, curious and complicated, moody, but mine. But Seven, she and I had become strangers. Her pesky perkiness was too draining to even acknowledge. "Leave me alone!" I begged, trying to reclaim the darkness of shut eyelids. "Find someone else to force your rise and shine upon. I'm not interested."

But this morning was different. The light had a mission and Seven was unrelenting. As my consciousness took over, snapped into alert, I remembered the significance of this particular dawn. Not only was it Thanksgiving, but also the six month mark of Blake's death. The weight of that realization tugged at my heart, causing me to collapse into the sunlight and embrace my old friend Seven. Today would be too lonely if I isolated myself. "Ok Seven, you win."

These two events coinciding didn't feel like a coincidence. The universe had transpired to lay out this juxtaposition so clearly that it would be impossible to ignore. The national day of thanks and the day that marks half a year without My Love. One with a theme of gratitude, the other: grief. I started asking myself, "How can I respect both feelings without falling too deeply into one or the other? How can mixing the two create a more meaningful day?"

The answer was actually simple: focus on love. The absence of it, the presence of it, the yearning for it, and the hope that it still exists. Love in all of its forms. Love that can be seen and love that can only be felt. Love was both my greatest gift and the deepest hole in my heart. Today, I would focus on love.

My annoying but inspiring friend Seven AM helped me realize that this Thanksgiving, I'm not actually balancing opposite emotions.  On the surface that's what grief and gratitude seem to be, but in actuality, that couldn't be farther from the truth. Because the foundations of both are the exact same thing: love. It's easy to trace gratitude back love, but I had to stretch my mind to come to the conclusion that grief couldn't exist without love either. Love makes gratitude and grief intrinsically linked. The separation of the two only came from my refusal to wake up.

Now, I'm wide awake with my friend Nine AM. He has all the analytical insight of Four, but with the blissful optimism of Seven. At this time of morning, the light is shining bright, but it no longer has to battle against the harsh contrast of nighttime. The sun is welcome to disrupt my sleep because now I want to be awake, enjoying every minute of this day. A day that reminds me of both the past and the present, but more importantly, the love that weaves the two together.

Today, I'm coming from a place of Nine.

Making a Place at the Table for Grief on Thanksgiving

When I was asked by one of Blake's friends to write about grief during the holidays for Buzzfeed, I felt really honored. First of all, I was so glad they were putting something together about such an important topic. I had been thinking about how this holiday season would be especially difficult, so writing gave me the opportunity to dig deeper into those feelings. I felt like this article could be a great platform to both read other people's insights and strategies as well as share my own.

It came out today, I read it, and unfortunately, I was disappointed. 

I really don't know how articles like these work, but I was surprised to see that my words were changed around and some were omitted. I figured that the author would use what I wrote as is, unless he checked with me first. But the most upsetting part wasn't a correction or deletion, it was an addition. After the sentence where I explained my boyfriend Blake died, he tacked on "from a heroin overdose" to the end.

When I wrote my piece, I purposely left out the cause of Blake's death. It's not because I'm embarrassed or ashamed (his family and I have never tried to keep it a secret) it just didn't seem to fit the premise of the article. I never mind if his overdose or addiction are mentioned as a way to teach people, but in this context it just seemed like a gratuitous insertion for shock value. I was under the impression that the article's focus was how to be thankful during Thanksgiving in spite of grief, not drudge up the circumstances of the deaths. 

After I allowed myself to vent to my mom and Blake's friend for a little while, I realized that focusing so completely on one tiny aspect of the article stopped me from seeing the bigger picture. Yes, some of the things I wrote were changed. Yes, something was added that I felt strayed from the point. But not only did I get across my gratitude for the friends and family Blake brought me, there were also 12 other beautiful stories shared. As I read them, I started crying. Although everyone went through a significant loss, each person found a way to make the holiday special by honoring their loved ones' memories.

I ended up sharing the article on my Facebook (which was something I originally decided against because I was mad). I realized that regardless of my individual contribution, I am so grateful to be a part of a really important piece with a comforting message. I wanted anyone who has lost a relative, parent, child, sibling, friend, or significant other, to read these stories as a way to inspire and help them get through the holiday season. 

Here is the article:
http://www.buzzfeed.com/saeedjones/making-a-place-at-the-table-for-grief-on-thanksgiving

Collecting Gifts

I'm flying home to Arizona this weekend because November 23 marks one year since Blake and I started dating. This morning when I woke up with an aching heart and eyes full of tears, I decided that today was a good day to start collecting anniversary presents for him. 

The last time I visited Blake's grave I brought shells, sand, and sea glass as a gift for his birthday. I did this because he loved the beach, especially the beaches of San Diego. We always planned that I would move here for graduate school and he would join me soon after. This gift  was my way to bring the beach to him, showing we can share San Diego in a symbolic way. And as an ongoing reminder that I have the honor and privilege of living our dream for both of us, I decided to bring bits of the beach to give him every time I come to visit.

So in order to find Blake's anniversary presents, I walked to the beach at the end of my street. But what started out as a quick way to listen to my heart, turned into hours of connecting with the ocean. I was mesmerized by the tide and its enchanting pull. I watched as it rushed over my sea gems, clouded and concealed them, and then revealed all that I saw before and more. 

The tide followed the same pattern over and over again, but somehow it kept teaching me different lessons. At first I learned how to rethink my disappointment when a pretty shell that I wanted got swept away. I was excited to find something beautiful, so when the water took it I got upset. But as this kept happening I started to realize that the shell wasn't mine to begin with; it belonged to the ocean. Because of this, I didn't actually lose anything. I was lucky to see the pretty shell for as long as I did, so I learned to let it go with peace and gratitude.

Eventually I transitioned from that lesson to a lesson about the power of patience. Instead of searching for shells, I started to let them come to me. I just stood there, basking in the sun, floating in the wind, and feeling like part of the ocean. When I looked down, the tide would retreat back just long enough for me to pick up what it had left for me. I knew what was there was mine to take because I didn't reach for it, it reached for me.

There is so much more I could write about the ocean. After Blake and my trip to the Monterrey Bay Aquarium back in May, we talked for hours about how magical it is. Not only does the ocean have a pulse, as evidenced by the tide, it also has a soul. If you are quiet enough, you can hear it speak to you. And if you are open enough, it has gifts for you to collect. Not only in the form of shells and rocks, but in lessons about how to live your life connected to the beauty of the world. 

What Not Writing Means

On my drive back from Homecoming weekend at USC, I realized that I haven't written a post in four days. Although this may not seem like a big deal, it's the longest I've gone without writing since I started my blog at the end of June. As I drove, I began thinking about what this four day gap meant. I ping ponged between believing it was a good sign and a bad one:

Maybe I was finally embracing normal life?

Maybe I wasn't respecting my grief? 

Maybe I was just busy?

Maybe I was just bottling things up?

Back and forth,

back and forth. 

I was doing it again: over analyzing my way into a corner. Instead of trying to pick apart everything I did or didn't do, said or didn't say, I finally switched my focus onto how I felt. How did these last four days without writing feel for me?

Calm.

During my drive home I was so focused on what not writing said about me and my grieving process that I blocked myself from a very simple answer. Maybe I didn't write because I didn't need to. Once I identified that I felt calm this whole weekend, it made perfect sense to me why I didn't feel the need to write any blog entries. 

In the future, I know there will be days when I'll need to write. On those difficult days I might detach, continuously creating poems and prose inside of my head. But today reminded me that there will also be days when I'm so caught up with life that I'll only have time to share private moments inside of my heart with Blake. Neither type of day is better. Neither means I'm any less respectful to Blake or less respectful to myself and moving forward.

At this point, I know I'm the best judge of what I need and what I don't. The more I trust in my ability to cope with Blake's death, the more confidence I'll have in the decisions I make for myself. If I can build that internal confidence and trust, I'm going to be ok. I don't know when or how, but I'm positive that I will be.

Bed

There's a whole world outside of my apartment, things to do if I open the door to my room, books to read and clothes to organize just a foot from where I lie, but instead I'm trapped in my bed. My entire life becomes the dimensions of my queen sized mattress. Everything beyond it is just a reality out of focus. I know it's there, I can almost see it, but it's all just a little too blurred. Too confusing. Too much.

I like my bed. It's not fancy or unique, but it's mine. And when I'm in my bed, the only choice I have to make is whether I want to be asleep or awake. Sometimes I don't even have to make that choice. When I'm in my bed I can just lie there and let my body make that decision for me.

At times I feel like I'm missing out. It could be as simple as sitting up and putting my feet onto the carpet. With just a little effort I could stand, walk around, and explore the space within my bedroom walls. If I tried a bit harder, I could exit into the rest of my apartment. I could shower, visit the fridge, watch TV, or maybe even talk with my roommate. And if I really wanted to, I could unlock the front door and leave. Just open it and walk right through. Who knows what I could find out there if I did that!

But the majority of the time, I prefer my bed. This is mostly because when I'm in my bed I know exactly what to expect. I know it'll be just me, my thoughts, and my laptop. There won't be any pressure to care about what's going on around me, to do anything I don't want to do, or to feel any certain way. In my bed I can hide.

I know I'm just isolating, separating, disconnecting, and avoiding. All of the -ings that only serve to postpone the inevitable. The unavoidable reality that there is a world just a foot from where I lie, beyond the door to my room, and outside of my apartment. A world that I belong to and love, but am not ready to fully embrace yet.

I toy with the idea of joining the world again and sometimes convince myself that I'm already there. But every so often I fall so deeply back into my bed that I get stuck. And while I'm here my point of view is that for me, reality is just a bit out of focus. I know it's there, I can almost see it, but it's all just a little too blurred. Too confusing. Too much. So for today, I choose my bed.

Knowing You're Not Alone

Three:
the number of girls I talk to about losing our boyfriends.
Although that number takes up less than a hand's worth of fingers, three somehow feels like thirty. Three hundred. Three THOUSAND. Counting doesn't seem to do them justice because numbers fail to quantify how much those three women mean to me.

Our four stories are not the same. One death was a tragic accident, another medical, and the other involved the same drug that took Blake's life. For a couple of us it's still fresh, the other two it's been a few years. There are also differences between how long we dated, the role we were allowed to play in the funeral, our continued relationship with their families, how we react to new men, and our general methods of coping with this unfathomably difficult situation.

But connecting with these women isn't about comparing who has it the worst or who is the strongest now. It's not about our disparities at all. What sets us apart melts away because we have this immediate and innate foundation of understanding. I feel like I can tell any one of these girls my scariest fears, most shameful thoughts, or wildest hopes. They may not feel the same things, but I know they would accept these confessions with a love that can only come from having "been there."

This is the power of knowing 
you are not alone.

It makes me sad that we've been conditioned to mask ourselves in front of each other. We are taught that the truths about our lives that may not look as pretty splashed all over Facebook are worth hiding. Ignoring. Denying their existence. When in fact, these are the building blocks that shape who we are and create meaningful bridges between us and other people.

I may never have met these three courageous and inspiring women if it wasn't for us reaching out to each other. If in that moment we chose pride over vulnerability, we would've never known the power of each other's company. We might have spent months, years, our whole lives thinking we were alone, believing that no one could possibly understand what life is like for us.

Four:
I was contacted tonight by a girl in South Carolina who's boyfriend also died in May of a drug overdose. Although we have no mutual friends, she stumbled upon my blog and bravely shared her story with me.

As we messaged back and fourth, I was reminded that the world is such a confusing, but beautiful place. Somehow the ugliest experiences are the ones that provide the pathway to the most life changing connections. If we open ourselves up and risk judgement, we will be rewarded with the unparalleled gift of knowing that we're not alone.

Protectors and Assailants

When I go out, I start sorting guys into two groups: protectors and assailants. I quickly label everyone in my head in order to navigate my way through the night. Although this strategy keeps me present for a while, it always ends the same way. Slowly and then all at once, I shut off completely. And when I get to this point nothing anyone says can bring me back.

The assailants in a bar are easy to spot. They look at me, my skin crawls, and I know. When they talk to me I feel nothing and everything all at the same time. I've tried to describe this panicked feeling before, but the exact words to explain it are still elusive. I fight to hold conversations with assailants as long as I possibly can, but eventually their every word, every movement pushes my heart to a cliff. As I near the edge, the alarms sound in my head and I have to excuse myself to find my nearest protector.

Protectors are guys I know well and have a level of trust in. Their close proximity to me is never a threat, but not always a comfort either. As they see me start to unravel, they hold me like a fragile piece of porcelain. Cradling me too cautiously, encasing me so I don't shatter. They create a barrier between us and the rest of the world so that no one can touch me. Although I'm grateful for this at first, inevitably I panic again. Not in the heart stopping way that the assailants incite, but instead this panic squeezes my lungs. I lose my ability to breathe, suffocating under the weight of their fierce protection.

And then I'm alone.

Not physically, as my protector won't leave my side, but mentally I've rowed myself to an island of my own making. I sit there as the ocean laps at my oars, trying to coax me back in. But I can't. I won't. I refuse. I've made my choice to disconnect and now I'm lost to the world.

As I shut myself off from this confusing crowd of protectors and assailants, I search inside myself for you. You reassure me that things won't always be like this; I need to be patient. That someday, I'll be ready to stop labeling guys as either protectors or assailants. Little by little, I'll start viewing them as they actually are. Not just there to attack or defend me, but as real people who are searching for connections in the same way I am.

So even though it feels like there's you and then there's everyone else, I'll wait. I'll keep attempting to find my way through the safety and the set backs, the challenges and the comfort, the help and the hurt. Because I know on the other side of it is a world full of love. A world that I'll belong to again if I take my time.

Don't Wipe My Tears (A Poem)

Don't wipe my tears

just let them fall

streak my cheeks

drip and crawl

From my eyes

pooling at my nose

caught on my lips

dampening my clothes

Don't wipe my tears

I like how they feel

they wash my skin

and help me heal

Wouldn't shut them off

even if I could

because with the bad

there's always good

Don't wipe my tears

they serve me well

teach me patience

help me to quell

the piece of me

with doubt and fear

and put in its place

a pride sincere

Don't wipe my tears

they're mine to own

understanding this

shows how I've grown

No longer afraid 

of what tears may say

because I make the rules

and tears are ok

Confidence

I bought a membership to a hot yoga studio when I finally felt ready to start exercising and taking care of myself again. After signing up a couple weeks ago, I made a goal. I saw the beautiful women with perfect yoga bodies coming to class in just a bra and shorts and I decided that I wanted to be one of them. I wanted to have the perfect abs and the confidence to show them off.

Today in class as I was dripping sweat (its hot yoga so the studio is over 90 degrees) I started thinking about the goals that I made. How will I know when my stomach looks good enough? How will I determine when I am ready to let other people see it? Maybe it was the heat that got to me or the fact that my shirt was drenched, but I decided that my stomach looked fine and now was as good a time as any.

Although taking off my shirt and standing in the middle of the classroom in only a bra felt like this monumental moment for me, surprisingly the world didn't stop. In fact, not a single person in my class even looked at me. They were all in deep concentration, working on their own poses and centering their own thoughts. It seemed that the only person who cared about what I was wearing or how I looked was me.

Leaving class, I started thinking about the goals I made for my body. I've made hundreds of similar goals before, but every time I reach a point where I give up on myself. Because there is never a way to determine when you're thin enough or pretty enough or confident enough, creating these kinds of goals always leads you down a path of inevitable failure. Even after learning this lesson over and over again, why did I continue to subject myself to such unfair pressure? Why did I think that goals like the ones I made were even goals worth making?

I decided that the purpose of working out should be to find balance. Whether that means relieving stress, improving the way my body functions, or connecting in a spiritual way, exercising should be an avenue for growth, not punishment. Going into a yoga class with the mindset that I'm not good enough and that I'm doing it to "fix" myself completely contradicts that. I should be doing it to take care of myself, not to push myself to look a certain way.

Even though I met my goal this afternoon of being one of the women in class in just a bra, it felt very empty and anticlimactic. It actually made me feel silly to know that I put the confidence I'd need to do this up on such a high pedestal. It seems that I actually had the confidence to do it anytime I wanted to. Somewhere along the way I must have forgotten that and started looking externally for a sign of this strength. When in reality, I didn't have to go any further than looking within myself.

Failure

I realized that when it comes to Blake's overdose, in some ways I feel like a failure.

This morning in my counseling class, we learned about Motivational Interviewing. This is a type of therapy used with addicts to change their drug use. As my classmates started asking questions about what to say and how to get the client to make positive changes, my heart sank. Although I know I never got the chance to have these conversations about addiction with Blake because he didn't let me, I still began to feel like I failed him.

I quietly cried in class, looking down while covering my face with my hand. I could have gotten away with hiding my tears if it wasn't for the betrayal of my nose. It sniffled and leaked and uncontrollably drew attention to me. I tried to silence it, but every time I wiped it, it surged back with vengeance. I felt the hot stares of my classmates, but didn't dare to look up. I didn't need to see their faces to validate the pity being sent in my direction. Instead, I got trapped in my head and sat inside myself as the lesson droned on. With every word from the professor's mouth I slipped further into my cave of inadequacy.

The difficult thing about guilt is that it can defy logic. I can logically know that Blake's death is not my fault and that there wasn't anything I did wrong, but the weight of failure still crushes me sometimes. Not all the time, but when it does I get completely flattened by it. I spiral deeper into my head posing what ifs. What if I asked better questions? What if I showed I cared more? What if I made it clearer that I'd always love him? Never judge him? Never leave? What if? What if?

What if I make the decision to forgive myself? What if I recognize that even if there were things I could've done differently, so what? Am I going to I punish myself for the rest of my life for that? Call myself a failure for all of the hypothetical things I didn't do?

We're talking about Motivational Interviewing in class. This means that I have the opportunity to learn how to work with people and help them make changes in their lives. Instead of using this as a means to criticize myself for not doing this in the past, I could be focusing on how I can utilize this strategy in the future.

I acknowledge that even though I fail sometimes, I am not a failure. The things I didn't do or could've done are insignificant in comparison to what I can do now. And what I can do now is infinite.

More Than Enough

When Blake first met my mom and dad I was SO nervous. I honestly didn't know what they would think about him. I wasn't sure if they'd like him and was afraid they wouldn't believe he was good enough for me. After introducing my parents to too many of the wrong guys, I felt extra pressure to make sure they knew he wasn't just another one of them. 

Before we went to meet them, I was extremely anxious. I started telling Blake what to say and what not to say. Talk to my dad about computers, you'll have so much in common. Tell my mom about starting your own business, she did too. Don't talk about religion. Or politics. Or anything about rehab. Blake handled my obnoxious nagging well for the first several minutes, but eventually called me out for it. He said he was excited to meet my parents because if they were like me, they would get along great. To him, it was that simple. Then he told me it was sad that I wasn't more confident in him.

Reflecting back upon our relationship, I know I had my doubts about Blake. He had all of these incredible business ideas, but lacked the discipline to really build on them. Money seemed to always slip through his fingers. And he was constantly taking risks, making mistakes, and assuming that somehow his messes would get cleaned up by someone else. But although I had my uncertainties about Blake, I also knew that I was completely in love with him. 

And this love for him has only gotten stronger. Through stories from his friends, bonding with his family, and really taking in the lessons he taught me, I have a more complete view of Blake. I see what a light he was to so many people, the widespread impact he had, and how he truly balanced me out as a partner. The more I discover about Blake through connecting with people and looking inside myself, the more my confidence in him grows. 

Lately, and especially tonight, I feel guilty because I wish Blake experienced me feeling this unshakably secure about him while he was still alive. I've been beating myself up questioning if he ever believed he was good enough for me or truly believed that I thought he was. In spite of all of my nagging, critiques, and judging, did he actually know? I wonder how many times he looked into my eyes and saw what an incredible man I viewed his as. That although I had my doubts, I never forgot how lucky I was to have found him and how much better my life was because of his love. 

I just want him to know he is enough. More than enough.

I should have told him that every day. 

The New Normal

Feeling like I'm almost a normal person again is so strange.

I've spent the past five months floundering between disconnecting from the world and struggling desperately to reintegrate, bouts of apathy towards fitting back in and concern for my lack of interest, and anything and everything in between. In the beginning, how I felt about my relationship with the world changed from minute to minute. But as time passed, these waves of emotions started to even out. First to an hourly basis and finally to a more optimistic day/difficult day pattern.

Feeling like I'm almost a normal person again comes from the smoothing out of these extreme fluctuations. Getting to this point is strange because I'm not sure if I like it.

Part of me knows that although I may almost be a "normal" person now, I will never be the same person. This is the part of me that's fighting back. This part doesn't like that things are starting to go back to how they were, because it's scared this means that I'll forget what I've been through.

It would be too easy to embrace this budding sense of normalcy with open arms. For so long, functioning normally seemed like a far off goal only seen from a distance. Now that it's actually within my reach, I want to grab it and wrap myself in it. I want to drench myself in normalcy so that I won't have to remember what it felt like to deny it's possibility.

But I've seen too much that I can't un-see. I've felt too much that I can't un-feel. I know too much that I can't unlearn. If being a normal person again means suppressing all of these things, then I want nothing to do with normal.

Words can't explain how grateful I am to finally feel like I can become a functioning part of the world again. But in my heart I know that reaching that point won't feel genuine if I achieve it by leaving what I've been through behind me. I need to somehow find a way to take all of what I've seen, felt, and learned with me back to the real world. Figure out how to be who I've always been, but a more understanding, compassionate, and spiritual version of myself. And maybe by doing this I can start to create a new normal, for myself and for those around me.

New Beginnings (A Poem)

There's something about a sunrise
like staring deep into your eyes
remembering them open wide
telling me "Baby, look! The Sun!"

Holding me is pale pink,
orange, yellow, all I think
is the colors make my heart sink
back to the hammock, in your arms.

The sky becomes a light blue
recalling sunrises with you
Are you here for this one too?
The warmth tells me "Yes."

After all the painting is done
many colors fade to just one
highlighting the beauty of the Sun:
a symbol of the new.

When Your Words Don't Matter

Last night I left the bar to go home because a guy made me feel extremely uncomfortable. After acknowledging my fear of new men, I've made an effort to clearly state what I want and don't want without being rude, but firmly enough to get my point across. The reason I panicked last night was because I discovered how powerless you can feel when your words don't seem to be enough.

To make a long story short, this guy did not seem to understand that when I said, "You're making me uncomfortable, can you please stop," and "I'm not ready," I meant it with complete sincerity. This was not me inviting him to try harder and push until I changed my mind. This was not a challenge. Even after a friend of mine explained to him that my boyfriend recently died, he still came back at me with, "I could be the guy to help you forget about him."

This is not flattering to me. This is terrifying and disrespectful.

After I realized he wasn't budging on his insistence that going out with him was best thing for me, I told him I needed to leave. I got up, walked outside, and hailed a cab home. I did what I had to do to feel safe. But on the way to my apartment I was quick to start looking for ways to blame myself for what happened. Did I come off too friendly in the beginning? Was it my fault for accepting a drink from him in the first place? Should I not be in bars at all?

Although I never felt like he was going to physically violate me, undermining the weight of someone's words is almost as debilitating. What gave him the right to insist that he knew what I needed better than I did? What I say should be a factor in my interactions with others. My words matter.  When that isn't honored, it can make a person feel insignificant. If what I said didn't register with him, maybe what I want isn't important. It made me start thinking that I was wrong.

But after a lot of reflection, I decided my question to myself shouldn't be "Was he right?" but instead, "How can I build my own confidence to insure that the opinions of others don't rattle it?" I need to shift the focus away from this man (and other men) and his actions. I will never understand why people do the things they do and I definitely won't be able to alter their actions. Just as they must decide for themselves to change, so must I.

Last night I didn't leave the bar to go home because a guy made me feel uncomfortable. I left because I allowed myself to feel uncomfortable. Yes, the choices he made in his interaction with me were questionable (in my opinion), but I gave him the power to affect me. By taking what he said to heart, I granted his words the permission to get under my skin. I allowed what he thought to mean more to me than what I thought.

Although I am by no means condoning how he treated me, I need to focus on my part in the situation. Because what I do, say, and tell myself is all I have command over. I will give myself consent to leave a bar if I have to. I will allow myself to tell any guy to back away and feel good about my decision to do so. And I will promise to remind myself that if I listen to my heart, it will never lead me astray. Because I am the master of what I do and think, and my words matter.

Loving Blake Through Loving Myself

When I was thinking about last night, that same enormous smile took over my face. For some reason, my body felt the urge to express this happiness physically. Without even realizing what I was doing, I wrapped my arms across my chest, grabbed onto my shoulders, and squeezed. I held myself tightly, eyes closed, smile pure, and felt the same kind of tingles that kissed my skin when I experienced Blake's presence.

I had an epiphany.

Since Blake's body isn't here, there is no way for me to physically show my love and gratitude for him. Before I could hug him, kiss him, and carry out acts of kindness for him, but now I can't. This left me with pent up emotion and energy that's been bursting out of me in unpredictable ways. Sometimes it's through obsessive investigation, other times self-loathing and despair. I guess I never realized that all of these varied behaviors stemmed from only one thing: love without a clear recipient.

I had no idea how to productively channel all of this excess energy. What do you do when you're so filled with appreciation for someone and have no way to communicate it directly to them? I realized that the spontaneous self-hug was my subconscious providing me with a physical representation of the answer I sought. But why was hugging myself the solution?

I've come to the conclusion that the best way to honor Blake is through loving myself. Earlier this month I acknowledged how taking care of my needs has been put completely on the back burner since Blake passed away. Although I've always known that I need to start making myself a priority, I never had the motivation to. I was missing the why. It was easy to push aside taking care of myself because I didn't understand how self care played into any of this. But self-love has everything to do with this. If I truly believe that Blake is a part of me, the best way to love him is through loving myself.

All of this is encapsulated in another brilliant quote by my new favorite person, Rumi:
"I see my beauty in you. I become a mirror that cannot close it's eyes."
To me, this means that in the reflection of my ability to love Blake so deeply I see the beauty of my own heart. I see that I am filled with so much more love than I ever imagined. And because I am capable of that kind of love, I am truly deserving of that strength of love as well. I owe it to myself to love myself as deeply and as unconditionally as I love Blake.

In Me All Along

It clicked tonight.

Lying in bed, silent and still, I felt him. My skin turned into a sea of goosebumps and my heart lit up. Although it sounds crazy, it was the farthest thing from irrational. It felt more real and obvious than anything I've ever felt. I whispered out loud, "There you are. I missed you."

A bigger smile than I thought was possible to produce spread across my face, which sent another wave of goosebumps rushing over my skin. In that moment I knew I had been asking the wrong question. It was pointless to grapple with what distance to keep Blake, because he's been inside of me this whole time. Whether I realized it or not, that's where he's always been and that's where he'll always stay. So instead, I need to be asking myself how can I be inspired to move forward by this empowering force within me?

After this became clear, I started to reflect on the struggle I was having with trying to picture Blake. I realized that I've been going about that the wrong way too. Since Blake no longer exists in his physical form, attempting to imagine him that way is futile. It only brings me the superficial aspects of his appearance, which just frustrates me further. Although it's hard to stop trying to reconstruct how incredibly handsome he was, that body no longer belongs to him. I need to let it go. However, instead of imagining him I can feel him in an all encompassing and spiritual way. A way that fills me with far more meaning than any mental representation could.

I am ending the night and drifting off to sleep thinking of a quote I read today. Moving forward, I am going to think back to these words whenever doubt creeps into my mind.
"Goodbyes are only for people who love with their eyes. Because for those who love with their heart and soul, there is no such thing as separation." -Rumi
But do not be mistaken. Acknowledging Blake is within me won't leave me frozen in time, chained down by unproductive thoughts of what might have been. Instead, it will push me to live a life filled with a renewed sense of purpose and love. He will radiate from inside of me and multiply my light.

Keeping an Open Mind

Without realizing it at the time, I went searching for Blake today. After waking up, I found myself looking up directions to the San Diego SPCA. Throughout our relationship, Blake and I spent hours talking about what kind of dog we'd get together one day. We even had a name picked out for him: Moose. Although I knew that I wasn't going to actually adopt a dog today, sometimes just entertaining the idea makes me happy. I felt a pull to the animal shelter, so I listened.

I walked around looking at all the puppies, seeing if Moose was in there. I know that when I find the right dog it won't necessarily be a particular breed or color, but a feeling I get when I look at him. Almost like Blake telling me he's the one. Unfortunately, Moose wasn't there. But I decided that was ok. I know I'm not ready, so it might have hurt more to see a dog there that I wanted, but knew I couldn't get.

I started walking out, feeling a little defeated, when I noticed there was a nature trail close by. I didn't have any plans for today, so I decided to take a walk. I felt weird about doing this all by myself, but something was telling me that I needed to get better at enjoying time alone. Besides, the day was too beautiful to just go straight home.

Someone close to Blake messaged me last night to tell me that Blake is all around me trying to help me, but is having a difficult time getting through. A few months ago, this would have sounded crazy to me, but after my recent experience with the medium nothing sounds ridiculous to me anymore. She offered me more information about the symbolism of the blue sapphire, which started me thinking about what I need to do to heal spiritually.

As I was walking, I was drawn off the paved path onto a side trail. To my left was a bed of fallen leaves in a sanctuary formed by clustered trees. The way the light poked through the branches as the wind rustled through them spoke to me. I decided to sit down and try to meditate.

This didn't go well, as I don't know the first thing about meditation. Blake tried to teach me a couple times, but my brain was always too busy to actually slow down enough to make meditation work. As I sat cross legged on the ground, the blowing wind felt like Blake trying to coax me into relaxing. I closed my eyes and it got stronger, but not powerful enough to silence my thoughts. I opened my eyes and whispered "I'm sorry, Blake. I tried." The wind gently swept my hair off of my face as if it was saying it's ok, you'll get there soon enough.

Although I couldn't clear my mind, what filled my thoughts was a message I wanted to write down. I didn't have any paper, but I decided to remain in my hideaway and jot it onto my forearm:

"Always searching for the path to you. How can I open my mind enough for you to fill it? What can I do to show you I'm ready? Ready to receive the gift of spiritual awakening. No longer trapped in my head and a slave to my own negativity. One day I'll be ready. Every day is a step in the right direction. A step closer to you, yes, but more importantly a step closer to me."

These thoughts are pretty disjointed, but I like them as they are. I am proud of myself for keeping an open mind and trying new things even if they aren't coming naturally yet. As the person close to Blake told me last night, another gift Blake gave me through his death was opening me up to a more spiritual and meaningful way of life. Although this is all new to me, I'm getting closer to figuring it out. This will be a lifelong process, but one that I'm sure will transform me in a beautiful way.