The Importance of Being Earnest

I used to write blogs at milestones, when my age increased, when I graduated, when I achieved something, when I failed. I felt comfortable exposing myself and revealing my most vulnerable alcoves, and I also felt that what I had to say would or could be a hinge-point for someone. If I said the right thing, at the right time, it would find the right person and maybe make them feel a little more seen or a little less crazy.

Writing a blog doesn't feel natural to me anymore, perhaps because I've spent the better part of two years writing privately, to myself, through myself, and for myself. In the way I used to commit to writing to others: professors, loved ones, people who just liked reading what I wrote, I committed to writing to myself. I've grown protective of my words and also my body and my mind, protective in a way I no longer feel that I have to explain to others. Protective of myself because I've learned that the self is worthy of protection. Protective because there is something sacred about the bond you share with your mind and body, something worth cultivating, worth missing appointments and closing the blinds. When I need to write now, my first inkling is not to come to this place, but to write in a dated google doc or a pink-snakeskin journal. I've learned the importance of protecting my energy and protecting my writing, and if I could give any peace of advice these days, it is to pay attention to the pieces of you that ask for extra love and protection. Don't brush them off or ignore them or repress them. Don't file them to a needy, irrational version of yourself; listen to them, they're trying to tell you something.

So I set off on a sort of cleansing journey, completely unintentionally. I found that a few key decisions changed everything and it became valuable to me to have these experiences without reporting back to the world on my findings. I learned to see my mind and my body as a team with different perspectives but the same goal. I found the value of listening to my body when it says no, and questioning my mind in a way I hadn't before. I learned that we play tricks on our own selves. We set arbitrary expectations and when we fail to reach them, we abuse ourselves. I learned that you must filter every human interaction you have through the lens of what that other human is feeling emotionally, that you have to protect your energy and your feelings. That sometimes means stepping away from a friendship or a relationship that has grown toxic or incompatible. That sometimes means saying no to people who have grown accustomed to you saying yes. I already knew that I was anxious and perpetually guilty and terrified of trust and not great at communicating my emotions. And I knew that I was sensitive and defensive. But I'm learning to accept these parts of myself, because they have all been conditioned in me in one way or another. These are the reasons I sometimes have trouble sleeping or drink too much or ice people out when they say the "wrong" thing. These are also the reasons I am intelligent and timely and a good writer, friend, and companion.

Yesterday, when an old friend, a woman I haven't seen in person since I was probably fourteen years old, asks me for a link to a recent blog, I have nothing to give her. I'm tempted to send her an invite to a google doc as proof that I have been writing, but I know she isn't looking for proof, she is looking for something I used to be more comfortable sharing, my words.  In 2017 I learned how to say no, how to close doors, and burn bridges, and protect my heart. I learned how to be selfish for the sake of my self. But in 2018, I know that my lesson will be learning how to open this heart again, how to share, how to trust, how to see the goodness in others, and not the ways in which they could hurt you. So I write this blog for both me and for Sarah, because she asked and because I'm ready to start sharing myself a little more again.

I write this from a place of sincerity, I know now, more than ever, that I don't know much of anything, that I will have bad days and embarrass and betray myself and people I love. In a letter to his son, about a girl his son is falling in love with, John Steinbeck writes, "Nothing good gets away." For so many days in 2017, this was my mantra. When the world felt empty and aching, I chanted to myself, "Nothing good gets away. Nothing good gets away. Nothing good gets away." I got a tattoo, I went to therapy, I did a lot of yoga, I cried and cried and cried. I ran, I sang for the first time in years, I drove to New York and Philly and back again. I threw up and gained and lost weight. I gave bad advice and disappointed myself and acted like a damned fool. And then I'd chant, "Nothing good gets away. Nothing good gets away." And the world would open itself a little and I'd peer inside and find something I liked looking at. I kept trying and took note of the days when trying meant existing. And eventually, good showed up that just wouldn't go away. Despite my kicking and screaming and refusal to believe in its existence, it just wouldn't fucking go away. :)

Now it's 2018 and I'm twenty-four and things are different. It's not that I don't still have panic attacks, it's that there is a part of me who walks in calmly with a deep-breathing toolkit and handles shit. My inner Olivia Pope zen-master. It's not that I don't still have doubts, it's that I know doubt is a tool, a springboard, something worth fighting or embracing, depending on it's source. And it's not that I never wake up and hate myself, it's that I know how to look that woman in the mirror and say, "I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU, I LOVE YOU AND YOU DESERVE LOVE—NO MATTER WHAT," until I'm crying and laughing and feeling crazy in a way that counts for something. And it's not that I don't still keep score with myself sometimes, ranking my demerits against my good days, it's that I know I'm never gonna be perfect and shame and regret are wasted emotions.

I'd rather love myself and do a better job of loving someone else because of it.