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.

Being a Passenger

Some days are beautiful.

There are inevitable moments of stress, loneliness, and sadness, but there is a larger sense of calm. Even while enduring daily struggles, there is an underlying notion that everything is going to be ok. That you are going to be ok.

The beauty in these days isn't in their perfection, but acceptance of their imperfection. There is a release of control because you realize you aren't in control anyway. Although you have the power to change a situation by your interpretation of it, what happens and how it happens is not up to you. This is confusing, frustrating, and annoying, but it is what it is. Sometimes you are just a passenger.

Today was beautiful.

Be Fazed

Who started the lie that it's better for us all to pretend?

Who decided that if you walk through life unfazed it shows your superiority over others who don't? That prohibiting things from affecting you is proof that you are above them. That a cool, calm demeanor in the face of adversity is the ultimate sign of strength?

Who tricked us into believing that we should edit our lives to make them look as pretty as possible? That you should spend your energy on maintaining an image. That if you can project the facade of stability and success then that is what really matters.

Who lead us to believe that what we feel should be controlled? That simply deciding to be happy is the key to happiness. That emotions can be categorized as "good" and "bad." That those feelings deemed "bad" should be confined only to the quiet tears on your pillow at night. Or maybe not even your pillow should hear them. Maybe you shouldn't feel anything at all.

Who convinced us that this is a kind of life worth living?

We are the who.

We are the who that started the lie,
decided every day to believe it,
tricked ourselves into living by it,
and denied ourselves the right
to be ourselves.

I want to be fazed.
I want to go through life feeling anything and everything that comes my way.

I want to appreciate the support of my friends and family because I know how destabilizing it is to feel alone. I want to fully understand the power and the preciousness of love because I've felt the heartbreak of having it taken from me. I want to cherish my life with everything I have because I know how painfully fragile it is. I want to reach the highest highs and the lowest lows and acknowledge them both for their inherent value.

A life lived unfazed is not a life I want. When life inevitably knocks me down, I will cry. I will allow myself to feel defeated, unwanted, exhausted, disgusted, disgusting, angry, anxious, alone, afraid. I will feel all of those feelings with the same respect and dignity that is afforded to more socially acceptable emotions. Because we are the who that decides what's socially acceptable anyway. We are the who that can decide it's better for us not to pretend anymore.

Insomnia of Grief (A Poem)

The dark between the hours

2 AM and 5 AM

is a little bit colder.

The minutes in those hours

somehow can feel longer.

The silence:

heavier.

This time of night is reserved

for unfortunate people

whose minds are rejecting rest.

With hands rubbing weary eyes

that are refusing to shut.

With loud hearts:

pulsating.

Their thoughts hold unchecked power

mixing sleep deprivation

with unfathomable hurt.

They are burdened completely

with ugly truths and fears.

Their struggle:

unyielding.

The only hope that exists

flickers in and out of view

fighting to stay in focus.

Deficient sleep or morning

is the only promise.

A new day:

approaching.

"How Are You?"

After “Hi,” most conversations start with “How are you?” When I was taught manners and social etiquette, it was engrained in me that this was the normal follow up when greeting someone. But I’ve noticed that “How are you?” is generally an empty question. It’s brushed off with a simple “Good, you?” “Good” and then the actual conversation begins. In my experience, an answer besides “ok” or “fine” or “good” interrupts this rushed formality and is seen as almost a hindrance to the progression of the interaction. So “How are you?” has become less about wondering how exactly someone is doing and more about being polite.

As anyone going through grief or a trauma knows, “How are you?” switches from a harmless social formality to a daunting inquisition. From the moment the question is posed, a battle starts in my mind. Should I actually tell them how I am? Do they really want to know? No. I know they don’t, I’ve been down this road before. I can’t possibly burden them with the truth anymore. They’ll start to cry, or worse, they’ll know how crazy I am. No, I can’t possibly tell them. So by default I always settle this internal conflict by answering, “I’m ok, you?”

I’m not bringing this up because I wish “How are you?” was really an invitation for me to pour my heart out to anyone who greets me this way. Honestly, it would probably be uncomfortable for both of us and a waste of time. Not everyone wants or needs to know exactly how I am all the time, even if they ask. What I’ve realized, however, is that in a world where asking “How are you?” is nothing more than a formality, it’s important to have a few friends who’s “How are yous” aren’t just the precursor to a conversation, they ARE the conversation.

Although this blog has been a space for me to share things that I wouldn’t necessarily admit out loud, it isn’t a substitute for the support gained through human interaction. The most helpful thing for me has been finding people who won’t be scared by my responses to “How are you?” Friends and family who can be the sounding board for my darkest thoughts and deepest fears and still look at me the same way afterward. People who understand that sometimes how I am is all I need to talk about until I’ve gotten to the very bottom of these feelings and released them completely. These are the people who ask "How are you?" and actually mean it.

As long as I have those few, invaluable people in my life, answering "I'm ok, you?" to everyone else isn't a lie.

Resentment and Communication

I lashed out today. I didn't realize I still harbored anger towards a particular person in Blake's life until it bubbled inside of me and reached a boiling point. I could have talked it out with someone else or processed it on my own, but instead this rage drove me to send a message to him. In my message I didn't place any blame, but I did express my resentment for his connection to Blake's death and how he's chosen to handle things in the aftermath.

I know that everyone is dealing with Blake's death in their own way. Maybe retreating and cutting ties is what he needs to do to heal. I may be mistaken in interpreting his silence and disengagement as him not caring. It's possible that he cares so deeply that he can't find the words to express it. He may be hurting even more than I am. Maybe talking to me about everything that transpired could send him to an even darker place, a place he's not strong enough to go right now. I can't possibly know what's going on in his head and in his heart.

I'm starting to realize that the extent to which I am willing and able to express my feelings is rare. It's unusual for people to not only have the ability to pinpoint their exact feelings, but also communicate them clearly. I can't expect the same level of self-awareness from others, nor do I have the right to demand it. I'm realizing more and more that I need to put my own desire to talk things out into perspective. Maybe that's what I need, but not everyone else operates that way.

Although the message was written in anger, I don't regret sending it. I stand behind everything I said to him and authentically feel everything I wrote. My realization, however, was that I needed to be less demanding of his communication and more respectful of his need to process things in his own time.

After I finished writing this blog entry, I sent him one final message:
"I don't expect you to respond to any of that, I just want you to think about it. Maybe one day when you're ready we can have a conversation about it. I'm still really hurt and it would help me a lot to be able to talk to you. Not now, but whenever you're ready."

So as I process what went down an hour ago, I am reminding myself that things will work out in the end. Maybe years from now when the pain isn't as fresh, he will be able to talk to me about everything that happened. Or maybe, years from now I will be at peace with Blake's death to a point that hearing from this friend or not won't change anything for me. I hope one day we can both be in a place where we can have this conversation. And if not, I hope one day I can be in a place where I don't need to.

Choosing Sadness

Some days I intentionally choose my sadness. I wake up and decide it would feel better to fully embrace how shitty I feel that morning. This hurt is like my favorite old Tshirt. It is unbecoming, oversized, and worn out. Under normal circumstances I would never wear it in public, but some days I just want to put it on. It is unseemly, but fitting. I can't be bothered with how it looks because it feels like exactly what I need.

This morning I chose sadness. I turned off my alarm, looked at his picture, and decided I needed to self-indulge. Waking up is hard. Reminding myself he's never coming back is painful. Adjusting to my new normal is so overwhelming that sometimes I'd rather not try. 

So I picked up the sadness that I called my old Tshirt. Putting it on felt comforting. I could relax in all of its baggy, giving fabric. The size of it made it possible for me to hide, to disappear inside of it for a while. 

I tried to take it with me to class. I wanted so badly to wear sadness all day long. But I was clothed by a room full of smiles, styled in the pursuit of knowledge, and adorned with the warmth of new friends. I looked down and found that I wasn't wearing my big Tshirt anymore. I was actually dressed for the day. 

At first I was upset. This morning I committed today to sadness, willingly gave myself over to be consumed by it. When I started to laugh, participate, and enjoy myself, it almost felt like going back on my word. I didn't want to be disloyal to my sadness because through everything, it has been my most consistent ally. I could always find it when I needed it. I could always slip back into its suffocating, but familiar embrace. 

But then I allowed myself to smile.
I realized that although today I chose sadness, happiness chose me. 

Denial and the Stages of Grief

My brain has been playing weird tricks on me lately.

Tonight as the usual highlight (and lowlight) reel of everything that transpired ran through my head, it almost felt like I was watching a movie. "Lifetime Movies presents: the tragic story of the girl who lost her boyfriend to heroin when she had no idea he was using." As the flashbacks continued, I experienced the usual feelings of horror, shock, and sadness. But strangely, it was like I was feeling these feelings out of sympathy for someone else. How awful for that girl. What a tragic experience for her to go through. Thank God that's not me. Not my life.

As the story continued to play out in my mind, I tried to get myself to connect to it. I couldn't. These were my memories, my life, my trauma, why did I feel so detached from it all? 

Was this all just a dream? Was Blake just that handsome older guy I barely knew from high school? Did everything between us even happen? 

It's terrifying how my mind seemed to be distorting my reality. Why?

I've read all about the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. I initially thought that the way they are listed is the usual order they occur. Based on that assumption, I thought that I must have skipped the "denial" stage. From the horrific moment the office manager pulled me out from lunch so my best friend could deliver the news about Blake's death, I knew he was gone and never coming back. I felt a million different things, but I never refused to admit to myself that the overdose happened. 

But I'm beginning to realize that denial comes in all different forms at unexpected times. This "trick" my brain has started playing on me, I think, is actually a form of denial. The underlying motivation of denial is that maybe if I don't acknowledge this is my pain, I can pretend I'm ok. My brain seemed to be trying to protect me through disassociation. 

Being the obsessive investigator that I've always been, I started researching online again about the stages of grief and loss. Is what I'm going through normal? What I found out was that this 5 stages of grief model is actually seen as outdated and not true for most people. Grief is typically a back-and-fourth between the five listed stages as well as several other phases.

This diagram makes so much more sense to me. I appreciate how it acknowledges that grief isn't chronologically linear. There are more than just five stages and they can occur concurrently or in no particular order. The beginning spiral section recognizes that at any point, these feelings can be revisited (and sometimes again and again). It's not like I went through the anger stage and got to wipe my hands of it afterward: "Ok, I was mad at Blake for a day for lying to me and doing drugs, but now I've accepted it. Anger: check!" Just because I had an angry moment and it passed doesn't mean I won't re-experience that anger later. The same thing goes for depression and now denial too. 

Like I've come to realize in the past couple weeks, everything is coming in waves. There are times when my heart is filled with hope, days that my body gives up, minutes that feel like hours of panic, bouts of anger, quiet thoughts of guilt, moments of peace etc. etc. etc. There is no finish line with a banner that reads "Acceptance! You've made it!" Grieving is a process, and one that it's not neatly confined into five orderly steps. 

It Comes in Waves

There was a moment on Friday night.

I had two of my best friends in the whole world next to me. We were holding hands, we had our arms around each other. A band that we used to go see when we were in college was playing a reunion show. I knew all of the words to the songs. I sang. I danced. I smiled. It was incredible.

In that moment, I felt like myself. I felt so grateful to be exactly where I was. I didn't think about anything besides the lyrics to the song, how happy I was to be with people I loved so much, dancing and smiling like I was a freshman in college without a care in the world.

I fell asleep around 4am after not only a great show, but a lengthy catch up session with two more friends back at my best friend's apartment. After we finally exhausted all people and topics we could possibly gossip about, I passed out on the couch in my clothes from the night. I didn't even notice I forgot to get Blake Bear out of my suitcase. When I woke up in the morning and realized this, I was afraid I was going to panic. I had wondered what the first night sleeping without him would feel like. Almost three months have passed and this was my first night falling asleep without the bear nestled in my chest and gripped tightly in my arms. Surprisingly, I felt ok. I survived.

But now the weekend is finished. My best friends are at their houses and I'm in mine. The concert is over, we're no longer dancing, and the songs are just a faint buzz in the back of my mind. Just as I've experienced before after an exciting day, the pendulum has swung the other way. Now I'm on the opposite side of joy.

The debilitating sadness comes in waves now. Instead of being in a perpetual state of shittiness like I was initially, I'm able to experience truly happy moments like I did on Friday night. In those moments I feel like I'm really me again. My heart is light and my mind is clear. I feel part of the world and connected to other people in real and meaningful ways. But then, the tide sucks me back in. I detach from the beautiful world I was starting to feel a part of. Suddenly my brain gets clouded with a million different memories, questions, thoughts, and fears. My heart starts weighing a ton, my chest throbs from the strain. And then I'm lost again. The idea that I thought "I'm really me again" seems strange and artificial. Who am I anyway?

As I'm writing this, clutching Blake Bear, I'm missing Blake so much it hurts. I'm thinking of the fun I had this weekend and how much he would've enjoyed singing, dancing, and gossiping with my friends right alongside me. It just seems so unfair that I get to have these happy moments and he doesn't. You could try to convince me that he was there with me the whole time and got to feel the happiness through me, but right now I'm not in the mood to listen to that stuff with a hopeful heart. When it comes down to it, he's not here and that's not fair. He was only 25 with so much living left to do. So many moments left to experience.

So as I'm riding this wave of sadness, the only thing that comforts me is knowing that just like my moment of happiness, this too shall pass. I will find myself back on the joy side of the pendulum again and the depressive feelings I'm experiencing now will seem far away. I've realized that you can't remain sad forever, just as it's equally as impossible to live in a consistent state of happiness. Moments like Friday night feel as good as they do because I know what it feels like to be devoid of all pleasure and consumed by pain. It takes plummeting to new lows to truly appreciate times when I feel good again.

Everybody Has a Story

During orientation for my grad program, it was drilled into our heads that the 13 strangers in my cohort were about to become my family. Over the next four years we could expect to study together, learn together, argue, cry, be pushed to our wits end, lift each other up, and be each other's greatest support and motivation. I looked around.

Knowing that we need to form a cohesive unit to get through this journey, we decided to get together for a pot luck on Wednesday night. As a bonding activity, each of us was asked to bring an item and share a story. This item was supposed to represent an experience that helped shape us into the people we are now. The story needed to be something personal, a way for us to really get to know each other, to understand what we've been through. So with that in mind, I knew my item and story had to have something to do with Blake.

I've really grappled with the questions of "if/when/how much" I should share with new people about what I'm going through with the death of my boyfriend. Does everyone need to know? If I tell people too soon, will they be blinded by their pity for me and not really get to know me for who I am aside from it? Will telling them too much make people afraid of me and back away from getting close to the mess of a person that I am right now? But in the spirit of allowing these strangers to become my family, I knew this was something I needed to share with them. I needed to share it now and I needed to share as much about it as they were willing to listen to. I put Blake's cologne in my bag, and walked out the door.

When it was my turn for show and tell, I immediately started crying. The first couple of minutes I looked down into my lap at Blake's cologne, insuring that I wouldn't make eye contact with anyone. I didn't want to see their eyes fill with sympathy. I didn't want to watch as I transformed in their minds from the bubbly, smiling girl they met at orientation to a broken, lost soul in pieces in front of them. I blacked out as I started talking. I'm actually not even sure what I said. All I know is that the more I talked, the more I was able to breathe.

I finally looked up at the strangers around me. As I saw their faces, I realized maybe it wasn't just me who was changing in their minds, but also them in mine. But this wasn't a negative thing like I originally thought. They changed in the sense that they didn't feel like strangers anymore. And suddenly I wasn't a stranger in their eyes either. By sharing this personal piece of my life, we became familiar.

One by one all of the strangers took out their items and talked about their lives. And each time, that stranger became a person, someone who was real to me. The stick figure on their page in my book was colored, shaped, and detailed into their own unique form. When I looked around now, I saw friends.

Sometimes I trap myself in my pain by thinking I'm the only one who's ever been hurt this way. In a way I'm right, because no one will ever truly know how it feels to be me in my exact situation as I'm experiencing it now. But it would be foolish for me to think that just because that's true, it means I'm alone in my pain. 

That night with my cohort reminded me that everybody has a story. Although there are a million different ways a person can experience pain, it all hurts. We are all united in our struggles because we know there is no cure for them; pain will always exist, and it may even increase. But every time I turn a stranger into a friend by sharing a piece of my pain, I can breathe easier. And when they share a piece of their pain with me, they can breathe easier as well. The beautiful thing about pain is that it bonds people. And that bond turns strangers into friends and friends into family.

Recent Photographs (A Poem)

Where there once was a twinkle

Sheer joy, a spark

Snuffed out is that glow

A gaze vacant and dark

Eyes like pools of despair

So deep you could dive

With a tiny hint of hope

Fighting hard to survive

You can tell she attempts

To produce a natural smile

Strained and dishonest

Hurting all the while

But there’s truth in her eyes

Although a dim glimmer

At the bottom of the darkness

Is a light yet to shimmer

If you look deeply enough

You’ll see hope fighting through

It’s broken and buried

But it’s existence is true

Although her smile is artificial

And her eyes look dejected

At second glance I see a girl

With a pain she has respected

The unwavering joy  

He made shine from her eyes

She knows can’t be faked

So it’s not like she tries

She puts on a good face

And smiles with her friend

Making the most of the moment
While hope is on the mend

Misery Loves Company

About a month ago I was frustrated that many of Blake's friends seemed to be moving on. I wrote in the post, "What Happens When Others Move On," that initially this made me angry. At the time, it seemed like it was so easy for everyone else to go back to their lives like nothing had happened. Why was this so much harder for me? I watched the profile pictures change back and the flood of stories start to trickle out until they stopped entirely. All the while I was frozen in time. Having nightly hour-long conversations with Blake's mom, reliving every moment, and crying our hearts out. 

But who was I to judge his friends? Maybe they were going about things the right way and I was the one not allowing myself to heal. I stopped being mad at them and instead chose to focus on myself and my own grieving process. They were doing whatever they needed to do to feel better and I needed to do the same.

The only thing that made me feel better, however, was to surround myself with thoughts of Blake. Whether it was researching addiction, seeking guidance about grief, or reminiscing about memories of us happy and in love, it was all about him. Was this bordering on obsession? I decided that what I was doing was ok and clearly what I needed, but I still felt weird about how it might look to other people.

So I monitored myself. I tried to pull back on sharing the entirety of what I was thinking and only truly confided in my blog. I figured by putting it all here, I could confine my thoughts to one space. My thoughts here could either be explored or ignored by others, depending on whether or not they wanted to see it.

It felt incredible to have an outlet to get all of my feelings out, but it started to feel like I was talking at people instead of creating a dialogue with them. At a certain point, I thought that through this blog I was writing the things that people were secretly feeling too, but didn't know how or were afraid to express. That in a way, this was for all of us, not just me. But as weeks passed by and people seemed completely reintegrated back into their lives, I figured I might be alone in all of these thoughts. I had to remind myself that this was ok, because this blog was supposed to be just for me. 

But seemingly out of no where, about a week ago some of Blake's closest friends started writing on his wall again. It started out with one, then a couple days later another, and then another, and another. Although every message was heartfelt and sweet, one of his very best friends wrote something that made me take a step back and think. He wrote:                          

I immediately felt a strange rush of comfort reading that he was clearly still upset. I had to stop myself. Was I that awful of a person to actually be excited that someone else seemed just as miserable as me? How could knowing that someone else is suffering possibly make me feel better?

I realize I'm not a horrible person for having these thoughts. The saying "misery loves company" is a saying for a reason. When you're feeling so alone in your pain and desperation, it is nice to know that someone else is down there at rock bottom with you. But do I actually want someone to sit and mull over the same hurt that I carry with me all the time? Of course not. Do I even want that for myself? No.

I'm taking away three main things from this:

1. People show grief in all different ways. Just because someone isn't posting memories on Facebook or putting up pictures, doesn't mean they aren't still hurting. 
2. It feels good to know you aren't alone in your feelings of grief, but it's important not to use this as an opportunity to compound the hurt and feed off of each other in a negative way. Instead, you can use these shared thoughts as a way to support each other and move forward. Maybe misery loves company because only company can truly empathize and help pull her up. 
3. Although I have to chosen to surround myself with Blake and others have chosen to try to suppress the pain, both options have positives and consequences. While my way leaves me frozen in time, the other way bottles up feelings that eventually will burst out. Maybe all of us could benefit from trying to come a little more towards the middle- I know I could. 

Triggers

There is such an overwhelming sadness that has settled into my heart. It's there, lurking, hidden delicately under a seemingly normal facade. I can try my hardest to ignore it, put it out of my mind, pretend it doesn't exist, but the sadness always resurfaces. Without fail. At any given moment I am a slight nudge away from tears. Anything can set me off:

• I wake up in the morning and my first thought is you.
• I see the picture from our first date framed on my nightstand. I check my phone and the background is us at the aquarium.
• I see soda. I see ice cream. I see basically any form of junk food that I know you would've wanted.
• It's 11:11, I make a wish like we always did. I remember begging you to tell me yours, but knowing it was always about us and our future together. I was wishing for that too.
• I pass a dog that I know we would've talked about for the next 10 minutes. I realize we'll never buy our Moose or Milo puppies.
• I mention your name because I like how it sounds and I need to hear it. I watch as people grow uncomfortable and don't know how to react.
• I see a young couple in love. I see an old couple in love. I wonder how I can ever feel that kind of love with someone who isn't you.
• I see the ocean and remember that San Diego was our dream. 
• Someone asks me how I am. I lie and say I'm ok. I realize I'm not ok.
• I hear a song we loved to sing to on the radio. I hear a song I hate but would've listened to because you would've loved it. 
• The sunset is beautiful.
• I get frustrated and seek your guidance. You always knew what to say to make me feel better.
• I actually start to have fun with my friends. A wave of guilt swallows me. I'm not having fun.
• I purposely start thinking about you. Memories of us happy, deeply in love, and smiling replay in my mind.
• You aren't here to kiss me goodnight.
• I squeeze Blake Bear.
• I beg you to please come to me in my dreams so maybe we can be together for a little while tonight. It's been too long. I need you with me.

Every minute is a battle, every day is a war. 

Although I may appear fine, my heart is wrestling with constant triggers of sadness. Can I acknowledge these thoughts, but let them pass silently? Do I give in to them and let the tears flow freely? Should I try my hardest to avoid the things that I know set me off? Do I even want to stop being set off?

Right now, the thought of not thinking about you is scarier than letting my thoughts be consumed by you. So I allow myself to live with the triggers and even seek them out at times. At least if I'm thinking about you, you're alive in my mind. If I can cry about you, at least I know my heart is still capable of feeling something.

Sadness has embedded itself so deeply into my heart that I actually find comfort in it now. It's a strange sense of familiarity, of safety. In a time when so much has been taken away from me, at least I know my sadness will always be there. At a point where I'm constantly having to put on a front, least I know that my sadness in genuine. I need the triggers. I welcome the sadness.

How Losing Blake Feels

"I can't even imagine how hard this has been for you."

I want you to imagine being naked. Not physically, but emotionally. Any of the walls you've built up to protect yourself from judgement, to make you look cool, or fun, or pretty- gone. You've gotten to a point with someone where you don't need to make excuses about why you are the way you are. As annoying as you may be, you're not only accepted, but cherished. You really have no idea how a person could possibly see all of your flaws and still like you, let alone love you, but somehow he does.

Now imagine how hard it must have been to get to that point. These walls you've built up are referred to as walls for a reason. They aren't gates that can be swung open or even doors that can be unlocked if you have the right key. They are walls. Tall, sturdy, unyielding. It doesn't matter how they were built, but they are there now. As much as they frustrate you, you need them. You've grown attached to them in a way that is unhealthy, but comforting.

Imagine the freedom that comes with having these walls knocked down. Not only knocked down, but they vanished completely. You feel like you can't even remember a time when these walls even existed because they are such a distant memory. There you are, standing there, completely and unapologetically naked in front of someone. How does it feel? What would you do? You feel like you can say anything, do anything, be anything. Anything and everything is possible because of that person and how he makes you feel.

Now imagine that being taken away from you without warning and without any chance of getting it back.

That's how it feels losing Blake. 

And I say "feels" not "felt" because I have to wake up every day and realize all over again that he's gone.

_________________________________

Why do I share my deepest thoughts, fears, questions, and emotions so publicly now?
Maybe I don't want to give up the feeling Blake showed me of being completely naked.
I don't want my walls back.
I don't want to part with the idea that anything and everything is possible.

Perhaps if I love the whole world like I love Blake, with no fear, no reservations, no walls, and complete nakedness, maybe it'll see all of my flaws and not only like me, but love me too.

Being Alone

The beach is literally a five minute walk from my new apartment, but until today I hadn't gone. This was because I was waiting for someone to go with, but all of my friends here have jobs to go to during the day. The thought of going by myself seemed weird, lonely, and sad. But since today was such a sunny and beautiful day, I decided to finally go even though I felt strange about it.

As I was walking up to the beach, an older couple was holding hands, carrying their fold-up chairs, and searching for the perfect spot. I ended up laying my towel a few feet from them.

They were both reading silently for a while, occasionally looking up from their books to smile at each other. At one point, the woman seemed to get bored of her book and started talking to the man. He attempted to keep reading while responding to her, but when this proved too difficult, he put his book in his lap so he could talk. After a few minutes, they both went back to reading. A few more minutes passed and I looked back over at the couple. I noticed that the man's book was back in his lap and he had reached over to grab the woman's hand. She held his hand as she struggled to turn the page with the other, until she decided she'd rather just hold his hand and put the book down. They leaned back in their chairs, held hands, and smiled at each other while enjoying the sun's warmth.

I got teary-eyed while watching them and thinking about how much I wish I could be there with Blake doing the same thing. But the weird thing was that even though the couple had what I wanted, I was not upset by them. Instead, I was so filled with happiness because of how obvious and true their love was, even after all of these years.

I've experienced similar things to this a lot since Blake's death. Usually after a break up, the sight of anyone in love makes me sick. I think it's a mix between jealousy and repulsion. But obviously what happened to Blake and my relationship wasn't a break up, so I think that's why I feel completely different. Now, I cherish love even more. When I see two people in love and happy, all I want to do is root for them and wish them the very best. Thanks to Blake, I know true love is the greatest feeling in the world. Everyone deserves to experience it.

This started me thinking about what I need now. If being in love is the best feeling, wouldn't feeling that way again help me feel better? Maybe losing my boyfriend left me with a hole in my heart that can only be filled by another boyfriend? Almost immediately as those thoughts crossed my mind, I dismissed them. No, that can't possibly be the right way to go about healing my broken heart. First of all, you can't successfully try to fall in love, and second, how unfair would it be to attempt to start a relationship with someone else when I am clearly still in love with Blake?

This whole discussion in my head made me reflect upon the fact that I initially stopped myself from going to the beach because I thought it would be pathetic to do it alone. Why did I think that? What's so bad about being alone?

Nothing.

I think I've subconsciously held the belief that to be truly happy, I need to be in a relationship. Somehow, having someone claim me as their girlfriend was validation of my self-worth. See? I am lovable, the fact that I have a boyfriend proves it. Someone out there thinks I'm good enough to be with me and only me. Being in a relationship made me feel like I was a person worthy of love.

But that's not what true love is about. Some of the loneliest people I know are in "serious" relationships. When I see couples like that, I am the opposite of envious. I feel bad for them because by continuing to be together, they are actually holding each other back from finding true love. No one should be in a relationship just because they are afraid to be alone. Because they're scared about what being alone might say about their worth. Because they are worried that if no one is in love with them, they aren't lovable.

By stopping myself from doing things, experiencing things, enjoying things because I am alone, I am reinforcing my flawed thinking that a person needs to be in a relationship to be truly happy. Like I've always believed, your soul mate isn't meant to "complete" you. A functional and lasting relationship isn't based on two people "needing" each other.  True love develops when two individuals, whole in their own right, share a similar vision for their future, see how they can grow together, and become best friends who happen to also be attracted to each other.

In order to get to a place where I can be that for someone else again, I need to be that for myself first. Now that I have been forever changed by this experience, what do I see in my future? What things do I need in my life to help me continue to grow? How can I be my own best friend now?

I see myself as an old woman, reading at the beach, smiling, and holding hands with my husband. I know that will be my life one day. For now, I am going to enjoy being alone. Even writing "enjoy being alone" feels forced and fake right now, but someday soon it won't.

Although I can't control when I find true love again, I can control how truly I love myself. 

The Types of Crying

Sometimes I randomly start crying out of nowhere. It's not like the crying I do when something reminds me of Blake or I'm specifically thinking about him. This type of crying is almost like my body has decided it's too full of sadness and starts leaking out tears. It begins slowly, without consciousness or warning, and increases through my confusion. Why am I crying now? What's wrong with me?

This is a quiet process. Quiet enough that no one would notice if they weren't looking at me. So I take it as a moment to retreat into my mind for a little while. I don't try to stop the tears; I let them roll down my cheeks and create small puddles on my shirt. I am patient with myself and ride this wave of tear drops until my body decides it has released enough. 

And then it's over, just as quickly and silently as it began. 

I have discovered there are several different types of crying, each one important in its own way. Although I'm sure there are more, these are the kinds I've been experiencing the most in my grief:

There is the gut wrenching crying that comes from the pit of your stomach and makes you heave as it suffocates you with it's force. This crying let's the anger and frustration out. When you've finished with this type of crying, you are so exhausted from the energy it takes that you don't have the capacity to be mad anymore. 

Then there is confused crying. Your brain is bouncing from one thought to the next, you're wondering why, feeling helpless and hopeless. There are no real answers to any of the things you're wondering, so all you can do is cry. In some weird way this crying makes you feel better because at least now you're able to say out loud how lost you feel. And that's ok. This is the best kind of crying to do with someone else because you can bond in mutual confusion and support each other in agreement about how unfair life can seem sometimes. 

But then there's happy crying. Your heart becomes so full of gratitude that a smile can't fully convey your intense emotions. Tears tumble from your eyes as visual representations of the love that fills your heart so completely that it can't contain it anymore. These happy tears wash you clean, give you strength, let you know you're going to be alright. 

And the silent tears I talked about first? I think they serve the purpose of reminding me it's ok to feel. Even when I'm distracted by my day, moving forward with my life, they come out of no where to remind me that I'm allowed to pause. If I tried to stifle them, they'd probably turn into confused crying or even angry crying. So instead, I use them as a reminder that I'm still healing. Instead of being upset with myself for that, I respect it. I give these tears the space they need and let my body decide when it's finished. And just as suddenly as they began, they stop. 

I am thankful to my body for the ability to feel, my heart for the capacity to emote, and my mind for the understanding that all types of crying are important and necessary.