Truths, but mostly Lies

I tell myself stories. I’ve told myself so many that it’s often hard to single out my truth from an old narrative I’ve repeated for too long. Sadly the stories on repeat have almost exclusively been about how I’m unlovable, not worthy or simply not enough. Some of you are thinking how unoriginal it is to feel that, yet too many will relate. These are not the words I was taught by my parents, loved ones or by people whos opinions actually matter to me. I’ve told myself these things because some boy cheated, countless ghosted – hell one guy abandoned me days after a traumatic event. Online they saw my photos but not once did they see ME and too many couldn’t include me in their life and I made the horrible realization they didn’t like me *enough*. 



**What a fucked up narrative**



Or is it? What if I spun it? What if I told myself I’M WORTH MORE. I’m MORE than somebody to text at 1:15am. I DO NOT TOLERATE behavior that makes me feel less than. I AM ENOUGH. If you can’t see my value, *please leave*. What if between the cracks of heartbreak I was speaking these words with my actions? Maybe the whispered voices of my own empowerment were stronger than the pained cries that were audibly loud, but small and ineffective. What if the universe was doing for me what I could not do for myself by moving the pieces out of the way. Maybe this joy I feel today was something I curated for myself, not for anyone else to take or judge. What if I wasn’t the victim of my own life? What if I forgave not just you, but me, too? What if choosing myself wasn’t selfish? What if I healed? What if I could love me? 



Today is a day that would normally cause me to be bitter and resentful because while so many are with a partner, I won’t be… but y’know, this year I think I’ll choose to pick a shiny, new narrative. If you at all related to what I said, I hope you find the courage in you to change the story you’re telling yourself, too. It’s an ugly place but only you can reimagine it. Heal.

Two

It was raining, hard. A typical winter night in Seattle – cold, wet and dark. My mother, sister and I were waiting on food when my mom’s phone rang. I was confused after she hung up the phone, “something happened.” Time became a blur. I don’t remember the drive, but I do remember speed walking the long and winding hallways of the hospice center feeling like I was in a dream where you’re stuck in a maze. People were outside his room and I remember asking what was going on, they wouldn’t answer. We both knew what the answer was, but it wasn’t their answer to reply. I walked in to the room where he laid motionless and peaceful. He didnt appear to be in any pain.

Life and Death and Taxes

I think about death a lot… Probably more than what anyone would say is normal. What is normal, anyways? In my defense, I feel I’ve been surrounded by it a lot and have needed țo work (or type) it out. These last few years have brought a few big losses in my personal life, as well as to those around me. I have found it’s impossible to not think about death without feeling a twinge of needing to live a little more in my own. A very ying/yang reaction, I suppose.

So what am I going on about? New Year’s Eve an uncle passed away after a very long drawn out illness and I was happy he was at rest. It’s awful watching anyone struggle in the grip of disease and failure of one’s own body. He was cremated and arrived this week… Via USPS. I don’t know why this struck me as much as it did, but this poor mailman showed up to our doorstep apologizing for our loss. Such an underwhelming ceremony for someone’s life, right? I honestly didn’t know what to think of that, his remains casually mixed in with the mail. With bills, letters, coupons and all the remnants of our pedestrian mundane lives next to all that was left of him. If I’d known my remains were to be shipped with a Pottery Barn catalog, would I maybe take myself a little less seriously? Would I take more time to sip my coffee in the morning, instead of rush in to bumper to bumper traffic? Would I be in such a rush to hurry up the weekend or would I remain present in the now? Would I ask out that guy, go on that trip or say sorry for that one time when I did that thing? Or would I be mean and resentful? Would I shut people out? Would I throw a tantrum at the waitress, speak down to a stranger, cheat on my lover? What would I have done differently had I known in the end I took nothing but the skin on my back with me? Would I choose kindness or would I choose to bring everyone down around me? If I’d known all that it would be in the end, just a stranger tossing what was left of me so casually in to a bag, what would I change? After a lifetime of stories, laughter, tears, heartbreak and cheers, amounted to this box of ash and dust next to someone’s taxes, would I find it still necessary to hold that grudge? Would I give more to the world or less? Would this give me humor, purpose, humility or a bitter and doomed depression? I wonder if my uncle knew, what would he have, if anything, done differently?