if you’re reading this i’m already crying in the cab.

this is a lot for me.

as far back as i can remember, i’ve always kept a journal, and for as long as i’ve kept a journal, they’ve housed my most vulnerable thoughts and private moments. as far back as i can remember, my journals are the only place where my vulnerabilities felt safe. i’ve always thought this is fine and normal, and on its face, it is. everyone has their deep and dark experiences that are just too tender, too sticky, to share. but i noticed something a few years ago, between dissociative rides on LA buses and in the spaces of quiet that lived where my close relationships should be: i don’t feel connected to anyone. i feel alone — maybe more alone than anyone else has ever been, or ever will be.

i’ve felt this while looking in the eyes of people that i loved and that loved me back. i’ve told so many people that exact statement that it feels normal to me too. it never felt like something i needed to acknowledge, because obviously closeness is something that everyone else can and should benefit from, except me. i never considered that i was the architect of my own perpetuating aloneness until i blew my life up in the middle of the pandemic and something shifted.

i was living with a partner when c*vid started getting really scary and LA locked down. the beginning was truly terrifying - i don’t have a lot of memories from the first two months or so, just that my mindset shifted so frequently it was like jumping between moving platforms of fear, confusion, optimism, anger, compassion, helplessness - once we were firmly isolated and i caught my footing, i realized how disconnected i felt in my relationship. it was sudden and emergent, and once my mind was made there was no changing it. i needed to get out. i don’t make big decisions lightly and i’m pretty sure i mourned the entire relationship while we were still together — it was a simple, unremarkable untethering. we each packed up our things, said goodbye to each other, and moved on. it’s still one of the best decisions i’ve made for myself.

i rebounded quickly into a whirlwind situationship — it eventually crashed and burned but that’s a story for another time. in hindsight i was just being lovebombed, but it was unusual for me to feel safe to be so vulnerable and i got the sense that i was being heard, and was oddly compelled to open up. i had been craving connection for so long. if i’m being honest, i felt fucking high on vulnerability for a while.

the highs were so high, but the lows were lower. i would stay awake crying through the night wondering why i was being kept at arm’s length. dates at night, never sharing what we were doing on social media, never staying over, only telling certain friends about me. the constant buildup of anticipation of being around them just to feel something in the pit of my stomach whenever we were together. the worry was in my head at first, and then it was real, and then whatever we had was over, and shit started to become really clear to me.

yes i got dumped, and we’re gonna breeze right on by that shit show into the next section:

everyone needs to go to fucking therapy

after the breakup i felt frozen in a former state, as if i had skipped into another dimension with an entirely perfect memory of my other life. the breakup felt like a gut punch. getting out of bed was a task for a person with motivations and goals which i was not. i was completely disconnected from everything. once again the only passenger on the LA bus.

helen and i started seeing each other twice a week. i took my time in therapy seriously from the beginning and opened up as much as i could. it was always the same: we started the session with me not knowing where to begin only to be blue in the face with still more to share an hour later.

i learned that the feeling of being frozen is called identity paralysis and it’s often triggered by significant life changes, which made sense considering my…everything. i learned that i was using my significant relationships to define me so i didn’t need to show my true self and ever risk rejection. i was terrified to be really vulnerable with anyone so close. i could be an open book to someone new because they didn’t scare me, but the more the relationship meant to me, the more of a people pleaser i became. i didn’t know it while i was in it, but it was about to become the year of realizing stuff.

that summer became one of the best of my life. i put absolutely everything in the fuck it bucket, only did things that made me happy and spent time with friends i could truly be myself with. i cut off all my long brown hair and dyed it blonde. i learned how to skateboard beyond just riding and i learned that falling fucking sucks but you are way tougher than you think. i had no one to please and nothing to prove and it was the most free i can ever recall feeling in my 20’s. when i die and my life flashes before my eyes, i hope i can get a longer look at the summers.

working through the traumas that shaped me is something i initially thought i would accomplish and then leave behind, like taking antibiotics. like i could realistically uncross all these goddamn wires via telehealth. i’ll be doing this forever but it’s honest work. vulnerability isn’t something you just have or you don’t. being vulnerable is a constant choice to step off the ledge without knowing what’s below. it’s trusting that being true to yourself is always the right choice. it’s fuck them if they don’t like you. you’re too special to keep it all in a journal.

so that brings me here. i have no idea what this is tbh. i’ve always loved writing and i’m finally over the hump of caring about anyone’s opinion on it, which could actually be a bad thing. but it’s probably not. but i’d like for us to find out.

fuck you if you don’t like me,

xoxo