I can’t find the ground under my feet so I look to the only place I know how to be. In the spaces between words. In the thoughts that become assembled by letters arranged into coherence, poorly punctuated.

It is a recurrent theme that I find myself crawling out of the pit that was the past tense version of me. Making sure my decisions are based in integrity now and not perpetuated by the deep loathing I feel for my past self. It’s dirty to be accountable to yourself. The ground is shiftless and I don’t know who I am lying to the most. I hope it isn’t me but I fear it is otherwise the fear wouldn’t be lingering as simmer anxiety under my skin. I feel blinded by my own psyche. That I cannot see the truth no matter how hard I look. Was it a spirtitual instagram page that told me ‘death to the ego’? Bitch has more than nine lives. I can assure you.

Today, I am practicing compassion in my words because truth is relative and dangerous and unkind to detonate when you are riding an emotion of hurt and spite. The walls I build to protect myself from my emotions have let in a flood to drown me and I don’t know how to cope. Valium helps. And I sit in grief better except the danger of accepting “it is what it is”, is knowing that more than love you need timing. How uncontrollable. Shakespeare wrote about it. Romeo and Juliet.

It was my dead friend’s birthday and I found a letter he wrote me who’s words rang so true today I couldn’t believe he had tried to tell me this five years ago and now I have been challenged to reflect on my poor ability to change. To prove a point to someone dead. But we make promises to ourselves and I have upheld a whole lot of new ones that I am proud of. I miss him because I think he is one of the only people I could heed the advice from.

Here is my free advice, which is the best kind because the standard rate for a psychic is $100 for the hour which is also the standard rate for a therapist. Choose.

The letter from the dead with words I need to hear today tells me when something dies do not drag it through the dirt to resuscitate it. It will only die more slower, worse and more painful. And also LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL.

Life is beautiful.

I am bad at letting go until I am good at letting go. It takes time but it’s a cord you cut and now I understand why the boy who tore my heart out over and over couldn’t love me the same no matter how many times we were pulled back to each other. It’s not you MB. As in I am not speaking of you. And if I detonated the truth it would show that I don’t respect you. I may not be IN love with you but I respect whatever disaster kind of love we had to no not hurt you.

So here I am, bleeding my heart out onto a page because at least I get to keep my own blood here instead of wasting myself on conversations that lead nowhere and are lost between two people unwilling to understand one another. Things are bad in any relationship where I don’t talk and not because I am silent and passive aggressive. When I lose my words, you lose me.

SJ xx
2020 version.