Where I’m at right now, it’s a much better place than where I’ve been. I won’t just be alright, I will be better. Because I make it that way. Because I can do this. Because I am beautiful, and amazing.
I’m proud of myself for being vulnerable, for taking a risk, and for being all of me, even when it was awful. I will never regret that.
Sometimes, though, it hurts. It hurts knowing that for whatever reason, even if it wasn’t a reflection of me, I wasn’t enough. Knowing that someone I trusted valued their own pride above everything I offered. Feeling that what was once out so wonderful turned out to be only a show.
When things began, we wrote letters. Sweet, loving, fun letters. As they progressed, we used them to say things to each other that had become hard to say out loud. Ways we were hurt, things we were worried about. One day, I wrote a letter, and it was torn to pieces. I wrote another. It, too, was discarded. There was no longer a level playing field. There was no more space left where I was safe, where I could say anything I needed to.
Today, I wrote one last letter. I poured all the hurt, frustration, tears, love and failure into it. I read it twice, then I lit a candle, and put it to the flame.
In my true fashion, I of course almost set my bedroom on fire.
I regrouped, in the bathroom where there is both a fan and a water source, and started over. But really, this seemed more fitting than anything. I went into this only thinking of how beautiful it would be, without any concern for details. It quickly derailed, burnt me, and created a huge mess. But, I was determined, and though it didn’t go anything like I saw in my dreamy-eyed vision, I finished it. Then I cleaned up the mess and moved on. Because that’s what I do.