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.