I am learning so much this year. Learning to trust myself more. Learning to praise people more. Learning to connect more. To allow myself to feel, to love, to see myself in others. Because I am in them. I am feeling myself calling gentleness forward. Choking, pulling hair and fast fucks hardly appeal anymore. All I crave is gentle, soft, pure love. I am feeling myself reconnect with that little girl again who just wanted to make out. Nothing felt nicer. Just sweet, sensual lips on lips. Maybe the last jaded rocks are falling and the healing has begun. I hope so. Because I miss that girl and I think it is time for her return.
I once was told to listen to her.
Listen to the child inside calling you back home.
Back to your base.
Back to where Tinkerbell was your hero and rain was your joy.
And when I experienced my first anxiety attack last year, I understood why.
I had ignored her.
I had suppressed her everyday believing that I was wiser.
That I was stronger.
But she caught up to me.
Now anxiety is a hot topic.
But I’m not joining the crowd when I say that I felt my heart beating out of control, my sanity slipping into constant negativity, and my fear becoming the driver of everyday life.
At that time, all I could see was a cage closing around me and I was scared.
I remember walking out of work that day with tears in my eyes thinking that something was wrong with me.
When really, it wasn’t something, it was someone and that someone was trying to be heard.
Unfortunately it took severe stress and suppression of my emotions for me to listen and it didn’t stop there.
It also took a break up, changing jobs, drinking to avoid the pain, and therapy before I really listened.
I was a mess.
But she stood by me.
She knew my worth and wouldn’t stop screaming until I did too.
And now I praise that beautiful girl who pounded on my heart because if I hadn’t listened, I’d still be there with you.
I remember the way he use to come home. Starched collar, clipped hair with stress held in his jaw. He would never talk about it then. We were too young anyways. But now I see more of him. He is not the only one. They laugh with their mouths, but not with their eyes. Is this what it was like for him? The expectations, the responsibilities, the energy of being pulled in multiple directions. Is this why he snapped his fingers for us to be quiet?
There must have been two of him. One at work and one at home. Which one was better, I wonder.
Now he drinks every night swearing he is different than the rest.
He’s the best!
But I see his trauma.
I see the way he holds back when he wants to love, but doesn’t know how. I can practically hear his pain with every clink of the ice cubes hitting the glass.
I wish he knew I see him!
I see him through every broken memory like it was yesterday.
“Brooke, that windows not clean enough. Start over.”
“Brooke, why did you burn the bacon? You stupid girl!”
“Brooke, why did you only get honor roll when the other kids got principle’s list?”
“Brooke, are you sure you want to wear those shorts? You have cellulite.”
His trauma has become my own and I have carried it with me every day pleading one day I would be enough.
But there is no enough.
It is all a lie and I know that now.
We are all broken, one way or another. And the only way I can move past it is by believing he was doing the best he can. Because right now, I am doing the best I can.