Untitled

She carried with her gravity,
The weight of it a secret she was too afraid to tell.
She had a fragile kind of strength -
Fleeting;
And as such,
A light to illuminate all her dark places.
But when she lifted her head,
She had stars in her eyes and galaxies in her soul.

- k.n.

The World

This is the world.
It's a mess.
People are going to do some terrible things.
But they'll also do some pretty great things.
There will be devastation.
But there will also be beauty.
There is life and there is death.
There is love and there is heartache.
A lot of things will fall apart.
Most aren't fair.
A lot of things won't make sense at first.
Some never will.
The important thing is not to let the bad cancel out the good,
Or the fear blot out the hope,
Or the pain reduce the probability of finding love again.
This is the world.
It's yours for the taking.

- k.n.

How are you?

Lately, I find myself so irritated whenever someone casually asks me how I'm doing. My honest answer is never "good" or "fine" anymore, but I don't think people are prepared for or even expect an honest answer. This is a simple and seemingly polite exchange that happens to everyone several times a day. We ask people how they're doing like we already know the answer. We ask the question without really putting much thought into the response, because we expect to hear "good, how are you?"  We ask the question and then tune out, because our part of the interaction is done. It's like "how are you?" has become more of an acknowledgement than an actual question. We ask each other how we're doing because it's something to say.

For this reason, whenever someone asks me how I'm doing, I cringe. I've started alternating between "okay" and "doing alright." It's not the truth, but it's more honest than "good."

How am I actually doing? Depends on when you ask me.
Sometimes it's sad.
Sometimes it's angry.
Sometimes it's anxious.
Sometimes it's distracted.
Sometimes it's crushed. (Usually it's crushed).
Sometimes it's tired. (Always it's tired).
Sometimes it's heartsick.
Sometimes it actually is okay or doing alright.
Sometimes it's even hopeful.

I'm pretty confident that if someone asked me how I was doing, and I replied with any of the above responses, that person would be extremely caught off guard. I'm generalizing here; there are a handful of people who intentionally ask me how I'm doing because they know the circumstances, but you catch my drift. Maybe I'm being sensitive or pessimistic here, but there's a part of me that almost gets offended by the fact that this question gets asked so unintentionally so often. "How are you?" is an extremely loaded question for me, which gets me wondering how many other people for whom it's a loaded question. Shouldn't it be a loaded question for everyone? How you are is a big deal! Being a person is hard. Shouldn't we do a better job of acknowledging that? Shouldn't we be more validating of other people's experiences? Shouldn't we stop trying to believe that everyone is good all the time?

Disclaimer: Right now, I don't actually want to have to give an honest answer to 99% of the people who ask me how I am. I'm not looking for everyone (or anyone, for that matter) to come try to pry my feelings out of me. I don't want to go there most of the time. It's just the principle that gets me. And I am so guilty of it. It's easy to pretend to connect. I've just recently become aware of how cheap it feels, and it's giving me a lot to think about.

"Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle." - Plato

Title

even so

I struggle with pretty significant anxiety, and I have for a long time. I remember several months ago, my anxiety got so bad that I started to tell myself that even if all of my worst fears came true, and even if every "what if?" turned out to be real, it wouldn't kill me. I would be okay. I would survive. I can very clearly remember sitting on the back patio one evening and telling this to my husband, and even saying that I thought it would be cool to get a tattoo that said "even if." (The fact that I remember this so well is saying something, because due to the fact that my anxiety tends to make my entire thought process blurry, I don't usually form very clear memories). Even if was my banner, and sometimes telling myself this was all that could get me through a bad day or a panic attack: the simple thought of, "At least I won't die."

In August, my worst nightmare turned out to be a reality. Every single fear was confirmed, every single "what if?" was validated.

There are still times when it feels like this is killing me. It has actually occurred to me that this might be what dying feels like. I am convinced that it is.

But I am alive.

Sometimes it feels like the only thing I have going for me is the fact that I'm not dead. But then when you think about it, even if that were true, being alive in and of itself is a pretty big deal.

I am alive.

My even if became an even so. It's been almost three months, and here I am. Sometimes barely, but here just the same.

This thing feels completely impossible, but I'm doing it. When it feels like I can't do it anymore, I remind myself that I am doing it. I've been doing it. I am doing the thing that feels impossible.

I have watched my entire life and everything I thought was real burn to the ground around me.

Even so, I am alive.

Even so, I am standing up under this.

Even so, I am doing the thing that feels impossible.

Even so, I will heal.

Even so, I will be okay.

Self-Love & Superhero PJs

Before I left for Cancun back in September, my sister bought me a pair of superhero pajamas for my trip. They are super cute, and I tend to love all things Marvel; plus I wanted something to sleep in that wasn't an old t-shirt from high school. But beyond that, I've found that there is something strangely symbolic to me about wearing superhero pajamas to bed as I stumble along doing this thing that feels impossible. Nights are still generally the hardest, but back in September they were so much worse. I wasn't sleeping. If I did sleep, it was a direct result of crying so hard and for so long that I was too physically drained to stay awake. When I slept, I had nightmares. It is for this reason that wearing superhero pajamas feels symbolic. They make me feel like I can do it. Maybe that's silly and dorky, but I am silly and dorky, and I kind of love that about myself. Yesterday, I bought a second pair of superhero pajamas. I'm a big believer in retail therapy, so purchasing them gave me a little burst of happy. Putting them on last night gave me another little burst of happy. I live for my little bursts of happy these days.

Let me explain: My life right now is a big, messy cycle of emotions and questions. Grief, anger, despair, fear, hopelessness...just to name a few. Life really is like a box of chocolates, only in my case it's that you never know when the entire box is going to spontaneously combust. My thoughts, emotions, and questions feel like a constant and literal weight, and they tend to cast a shadow over everything. I'm learning to be okay with the fact that right now, it is what it is, and there's not much I can do except the next thing. All that to say, I still find things to laugh about or that temporarily lift my spirits, and that is a big deal. These are my little bursts of happy. Sometimes it's just a moment or a flicker, and sometimes it sticks around a little longer than that. I am so grateful for them all the same. My little bursts of happy are also my little bursts of hope.

My superhero pajamas are not necessary for me to make it through the night. But they help. They are a simple statement to myself of, "I'm strong and I can do this." Wearing them is such a small thing, but it's something I can do to improve my mood. It's me taking care of me, and that is an act of self-love. The self-love thing is new to me, but it is so important and so necessary. Especially now.

Great Pain

They say that great art comes from great pain. If that's true, I'd like to know how these artists keep themselves upright long enough to create anything in spite of said great pain, let alone something others might consider great. My great pain has me in a crumpled heap. Always mentally and emotionally, but often physically too. The last thing I feel capable of is creating art worthy of sharing with the world.

And yet.

Here I am. I suppose that "creating" technically applies to what's happening here, but my emphasis tends to be on the great pain as opposed to the great art. I would be lying if I said that I didn't have hopes and dreams for this, but as a general rule, hopes and dreams feel more like a "someday" thing to me as of late. So for now, let's just call this what it is: a start.

So far, my great pain has not inspired me to channel whatever creative energy is lurking within me. Perhaps that will change. I hope it does. For now, though, my great pain is doing a stand-up job of making itself known, every minute of every day. As one of my all-time favorite authors writes, "Pain demands to be felt." No five words have ever felt truer to me than these. However, most of the time, there isn't any verbiage (in the English language, anyway) that could adequately describe what I'm feeling. Assigning words makes it feel smaller than it is. Containable. Words don't even begin to do it justice.

And yet.

Here I am, dedicating a blog to the seemingly indescribable. Is that ridiculous? Maybe. Is it 1:04 in the morning? Yes. Yes, it is. I'm not entirely sure how or where this will go. Maybe poorly and nowhere, but maybe great and somewhere important. I don't have anything to lose, so I'm going for it. Shooting for the moon, if you will.

Maybe that in itself qualifies as great art.